The Song of the Winter Princess
by princessangelita
Summary: She never thought her life would end up like this, but her destiny decided otherwise.
1. Chapter 1

The Song of the Winter Princess

By Princess Angelita

*Disclaimer: I don't own anything from the Game of Thrones TV series or the Song of Ice and Fire books. I have only taken the liberty of using the characters.

*Storylines from both the books and the TV series. For example, Robb is not married to Jeyne Westerling, because I think Talisa Maegyr has more personality. The Shae from the TV series is also depicted.

SANSA

She was frightened as she made her way down the corridor towards her room, green-orange light from the wildfire outside flickering around her, illuminating her way. Her breath caught in her throat as she heard another _BOOM_ from the exploding ships in Blackwater Bay and she stopped, cowering by the wall as a fresh wave of screams echoed through the night. Half sobbing, Sansa picked up her skirts and began to run. The tapestries and stone walls glowed eerily in the green light, making her think of whitewalkers and wargs and all the other frightening tales Old Nan had ever told. The thought of _something_ leaping from the shadows to grab her filled her with a terror she had never known and she ran faster. By the time she was at her door, she was clutching her stomach, her gut churning from all the wine Queen Cersei had made her drink. Her head spun as she grasped the latch and pulled the door open so she could stumble through.

Sansa leaned against her door for a moment before turning and bolting it closed. She could feel her heart beating hard against her chest and she sank to the floor, clutching her knees to her chin. She began rocking back and forth slowly, trying to calm her shattered nerves. _Father, Mother, Lady . . . _she thought. _I am going to die tonight._ The thought of her direwolf brought her strength and she pulled herself slowly to her knees, then her feet. She waited a moment for her head to stop spinning before she felt her way through the darkness to the window and pulled the curtains aside. Her hand flew to her mouth. Blackwater Bay was a sea of green wildfire and orange-red burning ships. Men were shrieking in pain, a high-pitched, gruesome sound that made her feel sick again. She could hear the sounds of battle echoing from outside the Red Keep: horses whinnying and screaming, men shouting, the rasping of metal on metal, and the moans of the dying above the loud crackle of the fire. Sansa gripped the windowsill and closed her eyes. _I am a Stark. In me is the blood of the First Men and direwolves and the old gods still protect me. I must be brave. I must be brave._

"I knew you would come," a haggard male voice whispered from the direction of her bed.

Sansa screamed and flipped around, for a moment thinking the queen had sent Ser Ilyn for her head after all. She could barely make out a shape in the shadows, until another flash of green lit up the room and she could make out a dirty, scarred face.

"Ser . . . Ser Sandor . . ."

"I told you before, I am no _ser_," Sandor Clegane growled as he reached for a wineskin on the table by her bed, taking a long swig and staring at her balefully.

His craggy face lit up again as another _BOOM_ resounded through the night. Once, the sight of his face scared her, but now all Sansa could feel was an odd sense of total safety. She hadn't felt so safe since being at home in Winterfell, surrounded by her brothers Jon and Robb and her strong, brave, honorable father Lord Eddard. Memories flitted through her mind of the others who had kept her and Winterfell safe: Ser Rodrick Cassel, his son Jory, her father's ward Theon Greyjoy, Alyn and Fat Tom, Wyl and Heward, Desmond and Cayne, Hullen and Harwin . . . and all the others who had protected her once, and now were dead or lost to her.

She stared into his eyes as the Hound approached her, coming to stand within inches of her body, reeking of wine, wet wool and blood, leather and dirt and sweat. Her fear dissipated, replaced by an unease she couldn't place. _Am I anxious for myself, or him? _Her heart fluttered wildly.

"What are you doing here?" Sansa asked quietly. "Have you been wounded, ser? Shall I find a maester?"

"I never got that song," he whispered, ignoring her questions as he tugged gently on a strand of her hair that had come loose during her mad flight to her room.

His words weren't what she expected and she stared at him, confused. He tugged her hair harder. "Sing for me, little bird. Sing now."

"What . . . what song would you like to hear, my lord?" Sansa heard herself whisper. Her knees began to tremble as he touched a fading bruise on her cheek, another on her collarbone, the result of Robb's victory over Jamie Lannister.

He said nothing, only looked down at her as if he would know every secret she possessed, as if he knew how she looked without her smallclothes on. The thought made her blush.

"I know _The Bear and the Maiden Fair_ very well; would you have me sing it, my lord?" she blurted out.

He drew closer, putting his hands around her neck with a gesture that was in no way threatening. _Why is he trembling?_ she thought as her heartbeat sped up. She was sure he could feel her pulse beating wildly under his huge palm and looked down in embarrassment.

"No," the Hound said harshly. "Another. And I told you, bugger _my lord_."

"Which song would you have me sing?" Sansa whispered.

He said nothing, only looked at her. She thought for a moment.

"_Gentle Mother, font of mercy, save our sons from war we pray, stay the arrows and stay the swords, let them know another day,"_ Sansa sang quietly. _"Gentle Mother, strength of women, help our daughters through this fray . . ."_

He cupped her chin in her hand and forced her to look at him. His finger touched her lips, then the bruises once more before he stepped away from her, breathing heavily.

"Little bird, I am leaving King's Landing. Bugger the queen, bugger the king, and bugger this bloody wildfire. If you want to go home, I will take you to Winterfell or to your wolf brother if you'd rather."

Sansa's heart stopped. "Wh . . . what?"

The Hound turned to her and laughed before taking another swig of wine. "What, you don't want to go home, little bird? Want to stay here, remain the queen's little dove, soon to be the little king's fucktoy? Ha!" He drank again. "Better put something in that mouth if you're going to let it hang open like that."

He offered her the wineskin and she took it without thinking, drinking deeply. The alcohol warmed her insides and she set the wineskin down, clasping her trembling hands together as she tried to understand exactly what he meant.

"Why? Why would you take me home?" Sansa was half convinced he was japing, thinking that even during the middle of a battle Joffrey would think of ways to torture her. _And what better way than to tease me with the promise of home, only to punish me when I was caught?_ There was something sincere in his expression, however. She could tell that something had changed about him.

"If you don't leave, that great arsehole Joffrey will kill you," the Hound said bluntly. "He'll bed you first, have you beaten as he did those whores . . ." He scowled and took another drink. "Or beat you, and then bed you. Either way, it will end with your death. The boy always got tired of his toys sooner rather than later."

She stared at him, one hand clasping her throat. "But _why?_ Why would _you_ help _me_? You're _sworn_ to Joffrey!"

He didn't answer, turning instead to the wineskin. Sansa looked at him, really _looked_, and for the first time saw who he really was. The boy whose own brother held his face into the flames, who had never known a mother's love, who had lost both sister and father in mysterious circumstances. The man who was sworn shield to the cruelest boy she had ever known. The man who killed Arya's friend Mycah, who had killed so many others without a fleeting thought. The man who told her himself that he loved to kill. But he was also the man who had saved Ser Loras Tyrell during her father's tourney, who tried many times to manipulate Joffrey into letting her be. The man who lied for her on Joffrey's nameday, and lied again to Ser Boros the night she met Ser Dontos in the godswood. She remembered the day she had been stripped and beaten, how the Hound refused to hit her, how he had given her his cloak when Lord Tyrion forced Joffrey to stop his humiliation of her. He had killed men for her, rescued her from rape, and now he was asking her to leave with him. For a moment she was still, and then it was as if her body moved of its own accord. She took two steps and was in front of him, the man who had done his best to keep her safe.

_By all the gods, I _love_ him, _she thought incredulously. _And he loves me! He has to! _ She thought of the way his eyes were always on her, the gentle way he tended her cut lip, how he had warned her when Joffrey was especially wroth.

"Sandor," she whispered, reaching tentatively to cup his scarred cheek in her hand. "Why would you help me?" Sansa was sure she knew the answer, but something deep inside her needed to hear him say it aloud.

A great shudder passed through his body before he snorted and turned away.

"Sandor . . ."

He glared at her. "Stop saying my name like that," he whispered hoarsely.

She was confused. _Does he not understand, or . . . am I wrong? Maybe he doesn't love me. _Sansa blushed in embarrassment and she took a step back, staggering a little as she felt the effects of too much wine.

"Do you want to leave or no?" the Hound asked gruffly, his eyes on her face.

She couldn't answer for the lump in her throat, and watched him silently as he studied her. An expression of hurt and rejection briefly crossed his face before he scowled, turning to pick up his sword and wineskin. As his hand reached for the door handle, Sansa felt her world shatter into the same terrible, heart-wrenching pain and utter panic she had felt the moment her father's head fell from his body. Sandor Clegane was leaving her, and she had _hurt_ him, the man who had kept her alive. She thought of the way his arms felt around her the day he carried her to safety, how her fear had immediately gone away the moment he picked her up.

_I hurt him. I hurt him. He thinks I don't love him. _

"Sandor," Sansa murmured, "don't go." Suddenly, she was absolutely sure of what she wanted.

He turned just as she reached for the clasp of her bodice with trembling hands.

"Please," she begged as her dress fell from her body, "don't leave me. I need you."

He took a step towards her and stopped, staring at her with a shocked expression before he averted his gaze. "Little bird, what in the name of the gods . . ."

"Sandor. Please." She held out a hand. "Please."

The Hound shuddered and wiped his brow, still looking away. "I will take you with me and return you to your family, girl. I won't take your maidenhead. Put your clothes back on."

She shook her head. "No. I want . . . I want this. Sandor . . . I want . . . I want _you_."

"I said I would take you home!" he said gruffly. "You don't need to . . ."

Sansa walked to him slowly, put a hand on his shoulder. "You have seen me naked before. When Joffrey had me beaten. Why look away now?"

He shook his head. "You don't know what you're saying."

"I do. I do want to go with you. But . . ." She looked up at him, blue eyes pleading. "If you take me, and we are caught, Joffrey will do something horrible to both of us. Please. I refuse to give my maidenhead to him. I want to give it to . . . to someone I love. Sandor, I want to give it to you. Only you. Now, while I have the chance to. Now, before anything horrible happens."

Sandor Clegane groaned and turned away from her. "You lie."

"I know I love you," Sansa said softly. "I want you to love me. I want to show you the truth."

"You are lying, girl, and anyway, I will not dishonor you."

"You will not dishonor me by allowing me to give my maidenhead to the man I love."

"Sansa," he whispered.

Her name on his lips made her heart soar like she had been waiting her entire life to hear it said that way. It was then she knew, beyond a doubt, that the man who she belonged to stood right before her. The knowledge took her breath away. _He has to believe me._

"Sandor," Sansa began hesitantly, "my love. Take me and keep me safe."

"You don't love me, you couldn't!" the Hound growled. "You dream of knights and maids and brave deeds, girl, of songs and _sers_ and stupid pretty things."

"All my life I dreamed of marrying a man who would love me, who was brave and would protect me, someone fierce and loyal and loving," Sansa whispered. She took a step toward him. "You are brave, and fierce. You would be loyal to me, if you loved me. You have protected me, Sandor Clegane, but you have never been loving." She took another step and looked him in the eyes. "Do you love me? Will you be loyal, and loving to me?"

The Hound stared at her, incredulity spreading over his stricken face. He shook his head.

"You don't believe me, but I don't believe you. I _know_ you love me. You have to. Because all I want is the man of my dreams, and the man of my dreams is _you_. If you don't love me, then Joffrey can do his worst, because I don't want to live. I have survived the loss of so many people I loved . . ." she broke off with a small sob and half turned away. "I don't think I can survive the loss of you." Sansa closed her eyes to hide her tears.

She felt him taking her white shoulders in his huge hands and drawing her to him. His mouth came to her forehead, her cheek, and then her neck and she would have fallen were it not for his strong arms keeping her upright. "Sandor," she moaned as his mouth met her own.

It was like there was no one else in the world but the two of them. She could no longer hear the screams of the people outside or the roar of the fire. All thoughts of the queen or Joffrey or the Kingsguard disappeared as he kissed her and she kissed him back, marveling at how her hands moved of their own accord to entwine her fingers in his soft black hair. "Sandor," she moaned again as he picked her up in his arms and carried her to the bed.

"Little bird," the Hound whispered in her ear before his mouth began its descent down her body, "by all the gods, are you sure?"

"By all the gods, yes," she whispered back, "oh yes."

"Blessed Maid, how do I deserve this?" she heard him murmur when his lips brushed over her navel.

Sansa couldn't think, couldn't breathe as his hot breath touched her womanhood seconds before his tongue and mouth began their movements. She thought she screamed then, but was not sure, the ecstasy she was feeling made everything slow and dreamlike. When his mouth found its way back to her neck, she was surprised to find her hands tangled in his hair, gripping his shoulders like she would never let him go. The feeling of his callused hands trailing down her body made her shudder. She tensed as he stroked her gently before sliding a finger inside her. The sounds that came from her throat reminded her of an animal in pain, but she couldn't stop them as he moved his finger back and forth. Suddenly he was between her thighs, and there was a brief pain as he entered her. His thumb brushed lightly against a spot on her womanhood that made her body turn to jelly, and she was carried away on a sea of bliss. When she could think again, she found that she had somehow gotten herself on top of _him_, bouncing up and down like she was riding a horse as he gazed up at her in wonder. She blushed a little, ashamed of seeming wanton, but then his hands gripped her hips and all ability to use her brain melted.

"My Sansa," he moaned, "my little bird."

He said the words and she was off into a haze of pleasure, his hands on her breasts and thighs, rearing up as she bore down, her hands were digging into his chest and raising welts on his hard stomach, then she was beneath him again and he was holding her close, nuzzling her neck and moving to suckle her breasts. The Hound shuddered and buried his face into her neck as he groaned one last time.

She lay beneath him, her breath coming in little pants. "I never . . . never thought . . . anything could feel . . . like _that_!" Sansa whispered, staring at his lips. When he didn't answer she met his gaze questioningly. "My love?"

He pressed his forehead against hers. "Say it again."

"Say what? My love?"

"Yes, little bird."

She put both hands on his cheeks and trailed her fingers down his jawline. "My love.'

He stared down at her. "Again."

Sansa smiled and pulled his face down into a kiss. "My love. My Sandor. My one and only love," she murmured against his lips.

Sandor Clegane pulled back and stared into her eyes. "You are sure."

She nodded. "I haven't . . . haven't felt sure about anything in my life, really." Her voice sounded sure and true. "But you, Sandor, you did something to me. Before I came here, I used to dream of knights in beautiful armor, troubadours singing songs, of feasts and jousts and picnics. After my lord father died, I have been scared every moment I was awake, and dreamed of blood and pain and death when I slept. Knowing you made me realize what I really want. Who I belong to, and who I should trust. My dreams were _dreams_, not reality. My love, I want to be yours. Marry me. Let me love and serve you for the rest of my life, and I will die a happy woman knowing I belonged to Sandor Clegane."

It was shocking. One minute he was looking at her, the next, his face was buried in her breasts and she could feel wetness on her skin.

Sandor Clegane, the Hound, murderer of hundreds, was crying.


	2. Chapter 2

SANDOR

The oak tree was not the most comfortable backrest, but he welcomed the discomfort. He knew he would never fall asleep when his little bird was resting, but it was better if he wasn't too comfortable. He glanced around their campsite with satisfaction. The oak tree was massive, no one could see them behind it and it made a good shield for their backs. The tree was on the edge of a small clearing in the middle of the forest, found by following a game trail through the trees. His little bird was warm from the small fire and his heavy cloak, the night was cool but not too cold. No rain or wind to make his Sansa uncomfortable, but it looked like it would rain the next day. _All the better, rain will wash away evidence of our being here._ He shifted his weight slightly and the beautiful creature asleep beside him moved in response. The touch of her soft hand reaching out for him, as deeply asleep as she was, both thrilled and enraged him.

Thrilled, because never had he thought any woman would care for him, or that he would ever love any woman. Enraged, because his little bird was in danger.

The escape had been easy enough. As much as he wanted to make love to his beauty again, they had to be quick. He threw on his clothes and told Sansa to pack her jewels and whatever coin she had, to put on her warmest smallclothes, to braid her hair and pin it up under a cap. It didn't take him very long to hurriedly scout the nearest corridors and find a maid's room. He grabbed the first dress and cloak he saw, both made of homespun, a dark plum color, worn but sturdy. His little bird was waiting for him under the bed as he had bid her. It pleased him that she was not only beautiful and gentle, but obedient. Everything he would have to do to keep her safe would be easier if she didn't question him.

He dressed her himself, tying the cloak around her chin and pulling it up over her cap. Then together they were racing through the castle, heading for the stables. It was nothing to hide his little bird in a dark corner in an alley while he bullied the stableboys into saddling his warhorse, Stranger. The boys flew to do his bidding as he shouted at them. "The King gave me an order. I mean to carry it out," he snarled. "I don't give a damn what the queen told you. Do you want me to tell King Joffrey his wishes have been refused by a couple of lazy bloody stableboys?" The horse was ready in less than five minutes.

They made it to the Old Gate in less time than he thought they would be capable, to his great satisfaction. The twenty men guarding the gate lowered their pikes at his advance, but quickly raised them when they recognized his hound's helm. Their commander Ser Uriah Marbrand glanced at him and the hooded girl in his arms, but asked no questions when told to raise the portcullis. They rode west through the Reach a ways, then turned northwest, riding all that night and through the next day, then through the second night, with Sansa sleeping in his arms whenever she was tired. They stopped only to relieve themselves or to let Stranger rest, eating sparingly from the dried meat, dried fruit, and crusty bread that he took from the kitchens before going to Sansa's room. Neither of them spoke much, but he hadn't minded that. There was too much in his mind to think over.

The third night was spent at an inn. His little bird softly wondered if it would be safer to sleep in the forest, but Sandor knew his limits and he was tired. The battle for King's Landing had exhausted him; he had gotten drunk, stolen his Sansa, and been practically ahorse for two nights and a day. _Any lesser man couldn't have done it_, he thought with satisfaction. _All for my little bird. _The inn he had found was southeast of Stoney Sept, well away from the Goldroad, not close enough to worry about attracting anyone who might recognize them, but close enough to not be a complete hovel. The innkeeper was an old, half-blind man who took his money and waved them into a room on the second story.

They had a meager supper of venison, onions, and turnips washed down with thin, bitter-tasting ale before his little bird had surprised him by coming naked to sit on his knee. She had drawn his face to her breast and tossed back her auburn hair, moaning as he suckled. He slept only after making love to her, for the first time since leaving the capitol. The next few days had blended in one to the other because they were so alike: wake before dawn, make love to his Sansa, dress and saddle Stranger, ride all day, find a suitable inn when it grew dark, make love again, and sleep for a few hours only to start all over again. He would have liked to ride straight through each day and night, the better to put distance between themselves and King's Landing, but he couldn't misuse Stranger so.

Tonight, however, there was no inn to be found. He believed they were somewhere in the great forest near Golden Tooth, as the mountains on their left were getting larger. He meant to take his beauty to Riverrun to ask aid of her uncle and grandfather, then north to Winterfell as he wanted her as far from Joffrey and Cersei as possible. First, however, he intended to take Sansa to Ashemark. A septon there owed him a favor, and Sandor was about to have that favor returned. He had no intention of meeting Robb Stark, a boy as rigidly honorable as his father, knowing he had bedded the boy's sister before he wed her. If it became known, he had no doubt he would be a head shorter in less time then elsewise. He sighed. Never had he thought he would be thinking so much about someone's bloody honor. But he couldn't control his line of thought.

_We must be wedded before we get to Riverrun. _ _Her reputation will be ruined enough just because she escaped with _me_, the Hound. If we're wed, traveling together becomes their fool notion of _respectable. _We have to be married, because if we're not, I doubt they would allow her to wed me. _He scowled and gripped his sword. _No one will take her from me, not even if I have to steal her away to Braavos, or carry her across the bloody Wall. _For the first time, he began to sincerely regret a great number of things he had done in his lifetime, and he disliked feeling ashamed of himself. He had long since pushed all such unnecessary thoughts from his mind, it was how he was able to commit all those heinous acts, by simply taking a breath and washing his mind blank. This sudden contemplation of his deeds both unnerved and angered him.

Sandor clenched his hands into fists. _It's for her, though. For her. Even with my scars, I would have stood a chance if I just would have been one of those bloody honorable knights who tosses roses to the ladies during fucking tourneys, who protected the smallfolk and upheld the virtue of all women. But that wasn't me. It isn't me and I'm not fucking changing. For her . . . for her, though . . . for the right to make her mine, live with her, sleep with her, to fuck her whenever I wanted . . . _His manhood stirred as he looked down at the young woman beside him. She clutched his hand tighter, intensifying the ache in his loins.

A twig snapped. Sandor's gaze flicked immediately from her to scan the trees around the small clearing, an automatic reaction caused by years of hunting in the forest. His right hand clutched his swordhilt as he listened.

The footfalls were soft and stealthy, barely audible. _Four feet,_ he guessed, _this is no man, too quiet for a deer, bear, or boar. A shadowcat or a wolf most like._ It surprised him that a hunting animal would come so close to the smell of a campfire. He pulled himself quietly to his feet as the footfalls came closer. Slowly, he drew his sword and positioned himself in front of his sleeping Sansa. The bushes rustled as the animal approached the clearing. _It's big, whatever it is._ Sandor gripped his sword tighter.

Through the branches, he saw a glimpse of grey. He tensed, ready to attack the moment the animal did. It was coming into the clearing. He raised his sword as the biggest wolf he had ever seen stepped from the brush and raised dark golden eyes to meet his gaze. He took a step forward, preparing to strike.

"Stop."

Sandor hadn't heard his little bird awaken, nor had he heard her stand. She was beside him now, her hand on his sword arm. Her beautiful hair swirled around her as she stared at the wolf in wonder.

"Nymeria," Sansa whispered.

The wolf stepped closer at the sound of her name, out of the shadows and into the firelight. Sandor choked back an astonished gasp. The thing was _huge_. Almost as big as his horse, with beautiful gray hair covering sleek strong muscles and paws as big around as plates. He was staring so hard at the beast that he didn't notice that his Sansa had left his side.

"Sansa!" he choked when he saw that she was halfway to the wolf.

"It's Nymeria," Sansa whispered over her shoulder, her gaze never leaving the wolf. "It's Arya's wolf. Remember her? She will not harm me."

The wolf called Nymeria moved silently to Sansa and stood in front of her. Sandor's breath caught in his throat.

"Nymeria, Lady is dead," his little bird told the direwolf. "And Arya is lost. I thought you were lost too."

Nymeria growled, low in her throat, and Sandor took a step forward as the wolf leaned down and took Sansa's hand between her sharp teeth. He gasped and raised his sword.

"No, Sandor," Sansa said sharply, as Nymeria tugged gently on her hand. "She wants me to go with her."

The wolf dropped his little bird's hand and trotted to the edge of the clearing. She whined loudly and ran back to Sansa, then back to the forest and disappeared into the brush, alternating between low whines and deep growls. Sansa flew past him, back to the campsite, and began packing their few possessions quickly.

"She wants us to go with her," she told him. "She is warning us. We have to go."

He stared blankly at her, still in shock over what he had seen. "Little bird," he rasped once he had recovered his powers of speech, "we aren't going to follow a wolf! She'll lead us right to her pack! We must keep north, to Ashemark as we agreed."

She shook her head and looked up at him sadly. "My love, we _must _go with Nymeria."

Sandor couldn't bring himself to be angry at her, nor could he abide forcing her to do other than what she wished when she looked so determined, so sure of herself. He sighed and went to grab Stranger's rein. "The Others take the damn wolf," he grumbled and motioned for her to get on. She cuddled into him as they rode, her hands on his chest underneath his mail. His annoyance gave way to desire as her hands stroked him gently.

"Thank you, my love," Sansa whispered. "I know this is right."

"Gods be damned if Stranger breaks a leg," Sandor said gruffly. "It's fucking dark and this trail is close in on us. And the wolf is leading us up into the mountains; we're going west, not north."

"It is the right way," his little bird insisted gently.

They followed one game trail after another, with Sandor keeping the grey shape before him well ahead. He didn't trust the beast but at least he didn't think it was going to kill them. _Yet._ By the time the sun rose, they were high on a ridge well above their campsite. They were breaking out of the wooded area out into a small crest of open meadow when the direwolf suddenly froze and growled, turning to look down into the valley below them. Sandor clutched Sansa tightly as he drew his sword, using his legs to turn Stranger so he could see what was going on.

He drew his breath in raggedly as he saw a large group of men riding into the forest far below them. Sansa shuddered and drew closer to him.

"Sandor," she whispered in her sweet voice, "they're wearing red cloaks, and the banner they carry is red."

Sandor held her tighter. He too had seen the mass of red cloaks, but what troubled him more were the smaller shapes moving in front of the horses: hunting hounds. _Fifty men,_ he thought, _perhaps sixty. All mounted. There'll be at least ten dogs._ The direwolf whined and he followed instinctually, glancing once more at the men. _The campsite was deep in the woods, it will take them at least three hours to find it. It won't take them long to find our trail. The scent of the wolf may confuse them for a bit, but they'll still come. Seven bloody hells. May the Others take that bitch Cersei and that whorespawn son of hers. How do I keep her safe? What can I do? _

He growled under his breath. "It will rain soon," he predicted, glaring up at the brightening sky. "It will help wash the trail, but it won't get rid of it all, and it may not come quick enough to do any good."

"Nymeria was sent to help us," Sansa insisted. "She will lead us away. Anyway, my love, if she hadn't come, we'd only just have left camp and the soldiers would be right behind us."

Sandor considered this as he stared at the direwolf leading them quickly through the trees, not through the meadow where they could be seen, but around the treeline where they could see the forest below. The truth of what his little bird had said couldn't be denied. _The wolf seems to understand our need, strange as that is. And it's true enough, _he thought sullenly, _our odds of getting away from those bloody lions with only a few hours lead . . . _Rage fumed inside him as he thought of what could have been, and his vision grew tinged with red. His little bird immediately began stroking him harder, wrapping her arms around his back to massage him gently. He immediately relaxed, to his surprise. Sansa giggled a little.

"Little bird?"

"My love," she whispered back, sliding one hand back around to his stomach.

Sandor groaned as she slid her hand into his breeches and began stroking him. "This is _no _time to . . . ah . . ." He gripped the reins with one hand and his Sansa in the other as her hand moved quicker and quicker, tightening and loosening until he thought he was going mad. In only a few moments he spent himself into her hand, groaning loudly.

Sansa giggled again

The wolf called Nymeria turned and looked back at them. She growled and tossed her head in a gesture that made Sandor oddly sure that she knew what they were up to, and was chastising him for making too much noise. It made him disconcerted, and he didn't like to feel unsettled. His beauty was using the edge of her cloak to clean her hand and his member.

"Do you feel better now?" his Sansa asked sweetly.

"You are a bloody vixen, girl."

"I thought I was your little bird, my love," she whispered, reaching to pull his face down for a kiss. For a moment his world was nothing but her soft hands and velvet lips. _They're coming for her._ Reluctantly he pulled away, focusing intently on following the wolf.

A few hours later, Sandor grunted as Stranger stopped suddenly. Nymeria had stopped and was standing right in front of them, staring straight at Sansa. His little bird stiffened in his arms and her face grew pale.

"Sansa?" he asked. "Sansa, what is it?"

Her eyes were unfocused as she looked up at him. "Listen."

He listened. Far away below them, the sounds of a hunting horn echoed through the forest. "Bugger the gods," Sandor spat. "Now they've got our trail. We've got to go faster." He tried to spur Stranger into a gallop but the horse refused to pass the direwolf.

Sansa took his face in her hands as her eyes slowly focused again. "Sandor, they won't be coming after us."

"What?"

"Listen," she whispered again.

He kept his gaze on her face as he listened. Her eyes unfocused again, her expression grew calm and emotionless. A bolt of terror shot through the pit of his belly as the noise began.

Men and horses alike were screaming, the hunting horn blew again and again until it was suddenly silenced, dogs were howling and men were shouting to each other in frantic, terrified tones. The echo was so loud it was as if Sandor was right next to whatever was happening in the valley below. Sansa sat still in his arms, her eyes still unfocused, her face inches from Nymeria's as she and the wolf silently listened.

He shivered as the eerie wail of wolves howling echoed around him.


	3. Chapter 3

SANSA

She woke to the feeling of Sandor's huge body beside her, cuddling her close under their cloaks. A smile spread across her face as she nestled closer for a few more minutes. She knew Nymeria would be close by, waiting for them to rise, and the direwolf became wroth if they lay abed too long in the mornings.

Sansa yawned and stretched before sliding naked from the warmth into the cool of the morning air. It took her only moments to pull on her smallclothes and dress, only a minute more to lace her boots. Nymeria met her by a huge cedar tree as she was beginning to gather firewood. The fur around her muzzle was coated in blood. "Did you find game, Nymeria?" she asked the direwolf as she rubbed the glistening grey fur around her ears. Nymeria leaned against her and rumbled gently in her throat, the sound Sansa knew meant that the wolf was pleased.

"You saved us, Nymeria. Jon knew you were meant to protect us." She let out a small sob. "I thought Lady would protect me, but instead it was you, and my Sandor."

Nymeria turned and licked her hand before taking a few steps back towards the camp. She looked back at Sansa expectantly.

"I'm coming," Sansa replied to the unasked question, picking up her bundle of firewood.

Sandor was half dressed as she and the direwolf approached the dwindling fire. "Little bird," he said in the grumpy tone she had come to love, "I could have done that. I don't like you going into the woods alone."

"I wasn't alone," she replied, reveling in the fact that she was loved and that someone worried about her. "Nymeria was with me." He grunted, his usual response to anything that had to do with the wolf, and continued dressing.

Sansa knelt and began adding a few logs to the small fire in preparation for breakfast. Sandor had told her they didn't have to hurry so much since the party that had been sent to find them were massacred. They were deep in the mountains, far from any people. No one would know where they had gone. She leaned back on her feet and stared into the flames. _It was so strange, _she thought, _how Nymeria was able to tell me what would happen. _She had been so afraid she couldn't remember much about that night, how Nymeria had stood before her, and suddenly she was _seeing_, flashes of the sight of so many wolves she had lost count, the continuous flashing of what the wolves thought of _what-would-happen_. Every second a different point of view.

She did not tell Sandor she had _seen_ through the wolves eyes, as they had moved silently from their hiding places to ambush the Lannister men. As confusing as it was, flitting from the mind of one wolf to another, she had seen the looks of terror on the men, they horses whose eyes were rolling in fear, the wolfskin-lined red cloaks the men wore. She had _felt _bones crunch between her teeth, hot blood on her tongue, rage at the insulting dominance of _men-who-killed-pack, _the _men-hunting-blood-tie-female_. It disconcerted her to know that she, Sansa, was the female the wolves meant. They _knew_ who she was and through Nymeria, considered her _pack_. And the pack stuck together.

Through the wolves, Sansa knew only a few Lannister men had survived the carnage to escape the forest, but were soon hunted down by six of the pack's fleetest runners. The others remained at the campsite to feed on the dead men and horses before spreading out to scout around their leader and her charges. The wolves were never more than two or maybe three miles away. This was a fact she did not think her Sandor needed to know, as uneasy as he was about Nymeria. Stranger knew, though, and was continually agitated, spooking at the least sound and pulling at the bit with his ears pressed back.

_Seven days. Seven days since the massacre._ She wrapped her arms around her knees. _And I am glad. Glad that they were killed. I wish I could have been there to kill them. I wish Joffrey had pursued me himself, and that I was the wolf who killed him._

"Sansa!" she heard Sandor shout. "Move back from the fire!"

She scooted back a few feet obediently. Her love's horror of fire she could understand, as she understood his habitual brusque manner. It didn't make her love him any less; instead she gloried in her obedience. It made her feel safer, it showed him her love. She was a woman, and he was her man, her lord and her love, and she belonged to him.

_And the things he does to me at night . . ._ she mused, _by all the gods, I would never give him up for anything. _She had long since lost all sense of modesty when it came to their lovemaking. The different ways he took her, how he could be so gentle one day and the next so fierce, how he moved her this way and that . . . just thinking of it made her burn up inside. She knew he had had whores, and that was surely how he had learned just what to do to her body that gave her so much pleasure. Yet she was not jealous. _He is mine, and mine alone._

The bushes trembled, her love drew his sword and spun towards the sound, and Nymeria appeared with a leg of venison. Sandor sighed in relief and sheathed his sword before he took it from her and began skinning the fur from the meat. She looked away, although the sight and smell of blood was an everyday occurrence. Sandor spitted a chunk of the meat and put it on the fire before starting to cut the rest into strips to be dried. Nymeria watched him work with an expression of boredom. Sansa timidly tried to reach her thoughts and was shocked when the wolf responded with a feeling of _blood-and-meat_ that Sansa interpreted as wondering why they didn't just eat the meat raw.

They stayed at the campsite for two days, until the meat Sandor cut had dried. Both days were the same: awaken, check the meat, check the fire, gather firewood, eat, make love to her man and fall asleep by the fire. They left the campsite on the third day. Nymeria squeezed through one game trail after another, and they followed without hesitation.

The second day after they left the camp Nymeria whimpered once and left them, gliding away through the brush like a silent ghost. Moments later, Sansa heard wolves howling in the woods. She felt Sandor grip her tighter.

"What are they doing?"

"She is leaving us," Sansa replied. She couldn't explain how she knew, she just _knew_.

That night, Sansa moved about their small camp, tidying their meager belongings and preparing what she could for their departure on the morrow. She glanced at her lord every now and then, unable to calm a twinge of uneasiness that kept her restless and unable to sit. Sandor sat well away from the fire, picking meat from his teeth with a small twig. She folded her cloak neatly on their bedroll and moved to warm her hands by the fire.

Everything happened so fast after that.

She heard movement in the trees, saw shadows that weren't made by the fire. Suddenly she was airborne and then she was pressed against a tree, with Sandor's back in front of her.

"In the name of the Lord of Light, I demand that you yield," male voice say calmly.

"Be damned if I do," snarled Sandor. "Leave me and my woman be, or I'll shove my sword down your bloody throats. Any of you dare touch her and I'll gut you and show you your innards before I take your head."

"Looks more like your daughter than your woman," another male voice quipped as others laughed.

Her Sandor growled in response.

"Enough," another man said. His voice rang with authority, that of a leader. Sansa tensed.

_I know that voice, I know that voice! By all the gods, please, why let us escape only to meet more lions? Nymeria would not have led us into a trap. _

The thought of being returned to Joffrey made her nauseous.

"No," she whispered, "Nymeria saved us from the Lannisters."

"It's not the Lannisters, little bird," Sandor murmured roughly.

"No, we are not Lannisters, Sandor Clegane," the leader answered, "we are the Brotherhood Without Banners. And you will come with us, to receive the justice due to your many sins."

"You know, I don't think I will," Sandor answered, his voice thick with sarcasm. "I have things to do."

"Things like murder and pillaging, Clegane?" yet a fourth voice asked angrily.

Sandor tensed in front of her. "You're thinking of my brother," he snarled before he spat on the ground. "My brother's the one out murdering and pillaging. Not me."

"What are you doing here so far from King's Landing and the side of that incest-bred Lannister spawn you're sworn to? And with a young girl?"

"That's my business."

Sansa peeked out slowly from behind Sandor, careful to keep the hood over her hair. _Twelve men, _she thought, _too many for my lord to kill before they kill him. _She glanced once more at the men surrounding them. The man in front looked familiar. _I _do _know him! Ser Beric Dondarrion! And that man is the knight who fought in Father's tourney . . . Thoros of Myr, who bore the flaming sword. And that man . . ._ Her eyes widened. _By all the gods, it's Harwin!_

She couldn't help it. The sight of a face from Winterfell, a friendly face, a face she had known her whole life was too much for her. She had been too long from the north. Without thinking, she flew from behind Sandor, running towards the man she knew as well as her own brothers.

"Harwin! Harwin!" Sansa screamed, "Harwin, it's me. It's Sansa."

She paid no attention to the other men, tightening their holds on their weapons, or to Sandor, who cried out and tried to grab her. She ran straight to Harwin, who stood as one stunned, and threw her arms around him. He was still as she leaned back and looked up at him. "Harwin, it's me! I thought you were dead with all the others."

He held her at arms length and pulled back her hood. "Lady Sansa!" Harwin sucked in a shocked breath. "My lady, what are you doing here? I thought you were the queen's hostage!" He glared at Sandor. "Did you kidnap my lady?" he shouted. "In the name of the Lord of Light, I'll kill you if you have harmed her!"

Before Sandor could say anything, Sansa released her hold on Harwin and backed up slowly to put a hand on her lover's arm. "No, Harwin. Sandor saved me. He is taking me to Riverrun, then to Winterfell. We . . . we are betrothed. I love him, and he loves me. You will not harm him."

Harwin's mouth gaped open. "He . . . we . . . you . . . betrothed? To the _Hound_?"

Beric Dondarrion stepped forward. "You are Lady Sansa, of House Stark? Daughter of Eddard Stark, the Hand of the King, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North who was beheaded for treason?"

"He never committed treason," Sansa said automatically, feeling her ire rise. She straightened her shoulders. "I am Sansa Stark, daughter of Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, and Lady Catelyn of House Tully. My brother is Robb Stark, King of the North."

Several of the men before her bowed, as did Beric Dondarrion. "It is an honor, Princess."

"Princess?" Sansa murmured. _Oh yes. Robb is a king. That makes me a princess. Princess of Winterfell._

"You are betrothed to this monster?" Harwin asked angrily, cutting through her thoughts. "If so, my lady Princess, allow me to slay him to free you. Unless you were forced?" His hand went to his sword.

"_No!"_ Sansa screamed, moving close to Sandor. She felt his strong hand on her shoulder, pulling her close to him, and she tried to calm herself for his sake. "You must not harm him! He saved my life, rescued me from Joffrey! He is my betrothed, we are to be wed. And I love him!"

"You are saying you have freely consented to be his wife?" Harwin asked incredulously. "That the Hound rescued you from your captors and has told you he is taking you to Winterfell? On your honor and the honor of your House?"

"By my honor, by the honor of House Stark, in the name of the old gods and the new, I do so swear everything I have told you is the truth," Sansa replied.

She watched with trepidation as the Brotherhood Without Banners exchanged glances with each other. Ser Beric's mouth tightened and he looked grim.

"I do believe what you say is true, Princess. But we of the Brotherhood have sworn an oath to uphold justice in Westeros, and Sandor Clegane has much to answer for. He must be held responsible for his crimes. The Brotherhood will see you safely to your brother King Robb."

Sansa's blood turned to ice, her hands curled into fists. "You will not. You call me Princess. My brother is king. In the name of King Robb of the North, I _command_ you to leave us be."

Thoros of Myr chuckled. "Definitely a royal princess. No mere lord's daughter could be so high and mighty!"

Ser Beric bowed again. "Forgive me, Princess, but the Brotherhood does not follow King Robb. We acknowledge His Grace as King of the North. He was chosen by his own northmen to lead them, and we have no quarrel with him. But he, nor you, commands the Brotherhood."

"Sansa . . ." she heard Sandor murmur behind her. She knew he was getting ready to make a stand. _I have to stop this before he is killed!_

"What are you charging Sandor with?" Sansa asked, putting a hand on Sandor's sword arm.

"He is charged with pillaging and burning towns, the rape of countless women, and the murder of hundreds," one of the Brotherhood spat.

"And how can he have done this, when he has been in King's Landing?" Sansa snapped at the man. He had the grace to look abashed.

"His brother the Mountain . . ." the man began.

"Is not Sandor," Sansa finished, cutting him off with a wave of her hand.

"He killed my father when he was only a boy," one of the Brotherhood said quietly. "I was only seven, but I remember him and his scarred face. Cut Father's throat for his horse while we were traveling the Kingsroad to King's Landing."

"I don't remember that!" Sandor growled. "And if it's so, it was war and perhaps I needed the horse, and your father refused."

"You killed my sister's husband, Ser Osfrey Whent, you rode him down as he fled after he yielded to you!" another of the men shouted, spitting on the ground. "I saw you!"

"Ah, Ser Gerold Dane. How pleasant it is to meet you again."

Sansa closed her eyes to the sight of Ser Gerold's reddening face, his angry expression at Sandor's sarcasm.

"He killed Cayn," Harwin said angrily, making her eyes snap open. "Remember him? He was in Lord Stark's household guard."

"Of course I remember him!" Sansa cried. "But it was under orders; my lord was following the commands of his king . . ."

"The boy Joffrey is no true king," Thoros of Myr cut in. "Are you so uninformed, _Princess_, that you don't know your so-called lord and betrothed is a merciless killer?"

"He has been merciful to _me_. And who of you can say you have not killed men?"

"In battle or for justice, Princess. Not for the love of killing," Ser Beric said solemnly. "Three men have called him murderer. The debt must be paid."

"_No!"_ Sansa screamed as the Brotherhood drew their swords as one.


	4. Chapter 4

SANDOR

He held Sansa tightly; ready to push her behind him at a moment's notice. The Brotherhood Without Banners closed in, swords drawn and ready. Sandor drew in a breath and raised his sword, ready to defend his little bird. _Chances don't look good,_ he thought. _I will kill many of these bloody bastards, but in the end they'll get me. And they'll take my bird . . . _Enraged, he gripped his beauty tighter.

Sansa was sobbing, a sound he couldn't abide. "No. No. No." she repeated over and over. "You can't, you can't!"

"Hold," Dondarrion ordered his men. Sandor didn't lower his sword.

"For the Princess," Dondarrion said quietly, "for what you have done for her, we will treat with you."

"Treat with me?" Sandor answered. "What do you mean?"

"You are accused of three murders," Dondarrion said, and pointed at the three who had spoken against him. "There are your witnesses."

"And?"

"One year for each murder," Dondarrion continued. "Serve the Brotherhood for three years and consider yourself shriven of your sins. Three years and you will be free to go. Such is the mercy of the Lord of Light."

He felt his little bird gasp. Dondarrion's men looked at each other warily. Many didn't look happy.

"Three years of service to you and you will not kill him?" Sansa asked shakily.

"That is what I said."

Sansa looked up at him, her blue eyes filled with love and anxiety. "My love . . ."

"I pledged to take my betrothed to Winterfell," Sandor said slowly.

"You can either die here, or pledge to us," Dondarrion answered. "We will ransom the Princess to her mother and brother."

He felt Sansa stiffen. "No. I will not leave Sandor."

"My lady Princess," Harwin told her, "you will be safe. We are honorable men. We _will_ get you to King Robb. The Hound will serve his three years, you will be safe with your family, and when his service is finished, he can approach your brother for permission to wed you."

_And that is how they will bloody well fuck me,_ Sandor thought as he ground his teeth. _They know there is no way Robb Stark will let _me_ wed his sister. He'd sooner feed her to his own wolf._

Sansa had come to the same conclusion, he knew. Her body had tensed so badly it was as if he was gripping a statue. He felt her hand move slowly, trailing up his thigh to his belt, and suddenly she was a blur of motion. Sandor heard the soft _swoosh _of metal against leather, and Sansa wrenched free from his grasp. He didn't have time to comprehend what was going on before she was standing before him.

"_You will_ _not take me to Robb_," she said loudly. "Or I will cut my throat here and now. And I swear, my spirit will haunt you all 'til the end of your days."

To Sandor's great surprise, his beauty held his dagger to her throat. He gaped and reached for her but she jumped away, glaring at him before turning blazing eyes to the Brotherhood. _By all the gods, what is she doing? It's sharp, little bird, it will hurt you! _His gaze slid down her neck.

"Sansa," he moaned as he saw the trail of red trickling from below the dagger. "Sansa, no!"

Dondarrion was staring at her with the same shocked expression. "Princess, there is no need . . ."

"There _is_ a need," Sansa insisted. "You say you are honorable men. I too have honor. I will do as I say. I will bleed here and die in front of you before you if you do not swear to me now that you will not separate me from Sandor."

Sandor dropped to his knees, feeling sicker than he ever had during his worst bout of drinking. _She can't do this, she can't, not her, no no no!_

"My love, my little bird, please . . ." He tried to beg her, but she wasn't listening.

"Swear to me you will not ransom me," Sansa said stiffly to Dondarrion, "or my blood is on your hands."

Dondarrion looked from Sansa to Sandor incredulously. "You cannot be serious, Princess. Lower the weapon before you seriously wound yourself."

Sandor tried again. "Sansa, please, little bird, _put the dagger down_." The depth of his horror and pain stunned him into silence. _I will do anything, anything! I will let them burn me; sacrifice me to their bloody fire god if it will stop you from this madness!_

"She _must_ be ransomed," Ser Gerold interjected. "If the Hound chooses to remain with us, she cannot come too. It's not safe, and the Brotherhood is no place for a lady."

Dondarrion stood watching thoughtfully.

Sandor moaned as his love pushed the knife tighter to her throat. The red trickling down her throat intensified. "No, Sansa," he begged. "Please, Sansa, lower the dagger."

"I love you, Sandor," she whispered. "I will not live without you."

"You truly love this . . . this _dog_?" Harwin asked, his expression one of complete and utter shock.

"Enough to die for him," his little bird whispered.

The words were like flames in his heart. _She loves me enough to die for me. My little bird truly loves me. _Since that first night with her, there had always been that tiny voice in his mind that doubted. _"She is using you to get home. She will never marry you. You know that, but you are pretending anyway,"_ it would say, over and over 'til he thought he would go mad.

He looked at Sansa, at the dagger, at the blood. Blood that was spilled _for him_. For the right to wed him. _She could have let them take her home, but she will not leave me._ _She truly loves me._ The stunning realization made him dizzy and he leaned back on his heels, unable to move or speak.

"If the Young Wolf hears his sister's throat was cut in our presence," Thoros said drily, making Sandor focus on the red priest, "we'll have wolves as well as lions after us. He will never believe she did it herself." Several of the others nodded and murmured their agreement.

Sandor felt more and more wroth. "You'd likely tell him I did it," he snapped.

Thoros met his gaze steadily. "We are no liars, Hound. We of the Brotherhood are honorable men."

"So honorable you are allowing a woman to harm herself before your eyes!" His voice cracked with emotion. "Sansa, _please!_"

"There is only one thing to be done," Dondarrion said suddenly. "Lower your dagger, Princess. Your life means more to the Lord of Light than your ransom. If the Hound means to be an honorable man, he must pay his blood debt _and _keep his word to wed you."

"What do you mean?" Sandor was shocked into asking, his gaze still on his little bird's life's blood trickling down her bodice.

"You must give the Brotherhood three years of loyal service to cleanse you of your sins," Dondarrion explained. "But you must do so as her husband. If you refuse, I will know you to be a liar and an oath breaker and devoid of honor and you will be burnt as a sacrifice to the Lord of Light."

"You are saying if I marry Sansa, and pledge you my service for three years, you will not ransom her?" His head swam. _Can this truly be possible? Can these bastards be trusted?_

"I give you my word."

"Then . . . I accept," Sandor answered as he pulled himself to his feet. "Sansa, my bird, lower the dagger." His throat was so dry the words sounded hoarse. She looked at him, then back at the Brotherhood, her eyes frantic. "Little bird, give it to me." He took a step closer, then another and another. Slowly, he reached out and removed the dagger from her grasp and tossed it on the ground before crushing her in his arms. Sansa began to sob quietly.

"My little bird," he murmured, "don't ever do that to me again." He tilted her head back to inspect her wound. _Shallow . . . needs to be cleaned and bound, but nothing serious._

"Do you truly love her?" Dondarrion asked, nodding at Thoros and motioning towards Sansa.

Sandor spared the red priest a quick, suspicious glance. Thoros dismounted and opened a saddlebag, pulling out wine and clean white cloth. He returned his gaze to Dondarrion. "Aye, I love her," he said menacingly, "and if any man or woman lays a finger on her now that she is mine, I will kill them."

"Your salvation," Thoros of Myr said solemnly as he gently turned Sansa away and began treating her wound. "No true monster can love."

Harwin stepped forward. "Clegane, I am a man of the North, of Winterfell. I was a loyal servant of Lord Eddard Stark. I may be one of the Brotherhood now, but for Lord Edward's sake, in his memory, I want you to swear to me that you will treat his daughter courteously and with honor. You must also swear to the Brotherhood, so we know you mean to keep your promises."

Sandor scowled. "I don't see why I should swear anything to _you_. But I will, for my bird's _honorable_ father." He heaved a great sigh and knelt, feeling foolish as he did so. "I swear by the old gods and the new, that I will marry Sansa Stark and treat her courteously and with honor. I will serve the Brotherhood Without Banners for three years to atone for my bloody sins, and I will not break my word to them unless Sansa's life is in danger. If she isn't safe, we are leaving, oath or no."

"That is not the oath we had in mind," said Thoros quickly. "It is no true oath if you intend on breaking it. The moment you do, we will hunt you down and you will be burnt so you may enter R'hllor's presence as clean of sin as a newborn babe."

"Nonetheless, it suffices." Dondarrion answered. "You have sworn us an oath, Hound. And we will keep our word, as long as you keep yours." He nodded to his brothers. "We will take them to Wenda. The septon there will marry them and Wenda will keep the Princess safe until Clegane has paid his debts."

He felt himself finally began to relax as the men surrounding him lowered their weapons and slowly begin to make camp. It took the Brotherhood only half an hour to pitch tents, care for their horses, and set up haunches of venison roasting over their four fires. In his arms, Sansa had fallen asleep. Still suspicious, Sandor carried her to a corner of the clearing and sat on a log, holding his little bird tightly as he glared at all of them.

"She loves you. For whatever reasons, she would die for you."

Sandor jumped and scowled up at the red priest. _Gods damn his sneaky hide. I never even heard him coming._ "As you saw," he answered.

"It strikes me as very odd that you have gained the love of Sansa Stark. Her reputation is that of a gentle, sweet young lady who would naturally be repulsed and terrified by you."

"She once was," Sandor couldn't help saying. "But no longer."

Thoros nodded. "You cannot have ever expected any lady to love you. You must be very surprised. Your reputation would frighten the toughest wench in Westeros."

Sandor laughed unexpectedly. "Sansa knows what I was, what I am, but she loves me anyway."

"Strange. Yet stranger things have happened. As peculiar as it is, I believe Princess Sansa chose just the right person to love. Not many men could have gotten her out of King's Landing, let alone keep her safe for as long as you have, with lions and wolves searching all over Westeros for her."

"What do you mean?"

"Only that we came across Lannister men near Stoney Sept not many days past. We captured one, who informed us that they were looking for the daughter of Eddard Stark to return her to the queen."

Sandor leaned closer. "And what else?"

Thoros shrugged. "Well, they don't seem to know she escaped with _you._ Of course, Joffrey has put a price on your head for your desertion. Oh, and what was it you told him? To, um, fuck off?"

"I told him nothing. I told the Imp to bugger off. I may have said bugger the king, but I can't recall."

"Interesting. It's strange, though, that they don't believe you took the girl."

"I won't disagree," was all Sandor would say. _By all the gods, I hate that bloody red bastard_, he thought as Thoros walked away. The man had a way of getting under his skin. He caught Dondarrion's eye and the big man began walking towards him. The skin on his burned face tightened uncomfortably as he frowned.

Dondarrion regarded him intently. "We will take you both to the White Fawn, as we promised. You do understand that you will have to leave her there, while you atone for your sins?"

Sandor didn't like it, not one bit. "I promised to protect her, and I _will_ fulfill that promise. If I'm not convinced the Fawn can keep her safe, I will not leave her there."

Dondarrion nodded. "She will be protected. I give you my honor as a knight . . . although I do realize you don't put much stock in knight's promises."

He chuckled. "You're right, I don't."


	5. Chapter 5

SANSA

Her throat burned, an itchy, tickling sensation, and she reached up to scratch it once again.

"Princess, the more you do that, the more chance it will scar."

Sansa sighed. "How do you always know when I'm scratching, Ser Thoros?"

"He saw it in the flames, my lady," Harwin answered with a grin. "He said so himself: _'tomorrow the princess will scratch her throat all day long'_."

Thoros glanced at Harwin sardonically. "You shouldn't mock the powers the Lord of Light has given me. I saw your future in the flames as well, Harwin, and I don't think you want me to say it aloud."

Anguy, the skinny red-headed boy with a bow slung on his back pulled his horse up. "Aye that he wouldn't. Only we'll be home tonight, and we all know who Harwin will disappear off with!"

"Melly!" Jack-be-Lucky and Notch hooted together. The ones Sansa heard called Dennett and Puddingfoot laughed and whistled.

"Have you filled her belly with child yet, Harwin?" Puddingfoot asked with a smirk. "As many times as you've ploughed that field . . ." His words cut out with a gasp of air as Harwin leaned over his horse and punched his shoulder.

"Not in front of Princess Sansa!" Harwin muttered to the others before smiling sheepishly at her, his face beet red. The others, except Ser Beric and Lem, burst into laughter.

Sansa giggled and stretched, wanting to be out of the saddle for the day. The Brotherhood had taken them north of Riverrun, heading for a castle called Oldstones. She was sure she had heard of the place before, but couldn't remember exactly where or what it was. Ser Beric had promised she'd be safe there, with Wenda the White Fawn and her band of outlaws. She giggled again. _Wouldn't Arya be jealous! The White Fawn from all the songs! _ Her mirth vanished as she thought of her sister, and she felt tears trickling down her cheeks. _Arya, Arya, I'm sorry I wasn't kinder to you. Now you are gone from me._

Sandor shifted in the saddle behind her. "What's so funny, little bird?" His tone was such as to make her know that he found nothing to be amused at.

"Nothing, my love," she answered, discreetly wiping her tears.

He grunted and spurred Stranger into a trot until they were well away from the others, falling in behind Ser Beric. Sansa sighed and leaned back into her love, reveling in her comfortable astride position.

_Sandor was so mad when Ser Beric suggested it_, she thought. _I don't see why. I know it isn't ladylike, but I'm not wearing girls' clothing now so it doesn't matter. _Ser Beric had Anguy give Sansa his extra set of clothes to wear, saying it was safer for her to be seen as a boy. _And boys ride astride. _Harwin had suggested cutting her hair as well, but the look on her Sandor's face cut him off midsentence. Others took up for Harwin, saying it was to keep her safe. It almost came to blows. The others argued, but Sandor stood firm. She was glad he got his way on that point; she was vain enough to be horrified by the idea of having her hair cut like a boy. Sandor won, but Harwin and Jack-be-Lucky mumbled under their breath.

To keep the peace, Anguy offered to braid her hair in such a way that it wrapped around her head. His fingers were deft, and soon Sansa's hair was twisted up into a mound of braids that went round and round her scalp. A man in a yellow cloak called Lem grudgingly pulled a dirty wide-brimmed hat from his saddlebag. Sansa fought back her distaste at the ugly thing but accepted courteously and put it on. It was so big, it completely covered the entire mound of hair and even obscured her face. If she happened to look down, no one could see her face at all. _No one would recognize me like this. My face and hands are dirty, my nails are chipped, my hair is hidden, I'm dressed in stained boy's clothes, and I'm astride a horse. Where is proper Lady Sansa in all that? Oops, I mean _Princess_ Sansa. Because Robb truly is a king. Robb, King of the North. The Young Wolf. _

Sandor mumbled another string of curses and she rubbed his thighs soothingly.

"Everything will be all right, my love," she whispered.

"How do you know?" he snapped back.

"Because I _know_." She couldn't explain how she knew, she was simply filled with utter certainty that going with the outlaws was the right thing to do. _Like I knew that we must follow Nymeria._

The Brotherhood had given her the night to rest and recover from the stresses of the day. The next morning, as Sandor was tending Stranger, Ser Beric came to speak with her while Thoros applied a new bandage to her wound. He explained their plans and the part she would play in it. He told her that Wenda the White Fawn made Oldstones Castle her seat and it was to Oldstones they were headed. The Brotherhood would stay in Oldstones for a few days before heading out again to forage for food and search the Riverlands _'in the name of the Lord of Light, to dispense justice amongst the enemies of Westeros,' _Ser Beric had said. She, Sansa, would remain with the White Fawn, and Sandor would accompany the Brotherhood north.

"If the Lord of Light allows it," Ser Beric said calmly, "we will return to Oldstones in a few weeks with provisions."

"And hostages," Thoros of Myr added, looking at her in that sly way he had. "Ones we can ransom." His tone suggested that he was angry, and Sansa felt a bit guilty until he waggled his eyebrows at her, making her laugh.

It was much better than she thought. _Ser Beric promised me that Sandor's three years service doesn't mean we will be apart the whole time. I will be in Oldstones, but Sandor will never be gone more than a few weeks or perhaps a month at a time. He said he was respecting my love's promise to ensure my safety that he could not, in honor, keep him too far from me._ She stared at Ser Beric's back as he rode silently in front of them, his head moving slightly from side to side as he scanned the forest for danger. _He reminds me of Father. He is honorable and just. I hope it doesn't get him killed, as it did . . . _

She forced herself to stop thinking of things that would make her cry. Instead, she kept her eyes on Ser Beric until her eyelids drooped and she fell asleep, cuddling closer to her Sandor.

"_Hold! Who goes there?" _

She was startled out of sleep to find herself in the dark, the shadows of trees and an old castle looming around her. Torches were lit around the walls of a tumbledown keep, glowing just brightly enough for Sansa to see men with crossbows standing along the battlements. Sandor's arm tightened around her.

"I am Ser Beric Dondarrion, requesting permission to see the White Fawn," Ser Beric shouted back.

A throaty feminine chuckle wafted down from the top of the keep. "Ser Beric!" a woman cried. "Is that truly you? I heard you were dead! Again! We heard it was that Lorch lord that hanged you."

Ser Beric smiled up at her. "I always come back. You know that, Lady Wenda."

The White Fawn laughed back. "It will please me to feast you and yours tonight."

Sansa squinted hard and peered through the shadows to see a slender figure dressed in mail turn away and begin shouting orders. A long blond braid hung down the woman's back, over what looked like a black fur cloak and a quiver of arrows. A portcullis was raised and Stranger's muscles moved under her as they passed through the gate into a small courtyard. It was brighter here.

She blinked as people carrying torches surrounded them, calling out greetings to the members of the Brotherhood. Harwin leaned from his saddle to kiss a young woman with dark, tangled hair and a sweet but plain face. Thoros jumped from his saddle to clap several men on the back. Twin girls with plaited violet hair were hugging Anguy and fussing over his thinness. Lem and Jack-be-Lucky were swallowed up into the noisy crowd. She was so stunned by the fact that none of the women were wearing dresses that it took her a moment to realize people were recognizing Sandor.

"The Hound!" someone whispered.

"Isn't that King Joffrey's dog?"

"The Hound! See his burned face!"

"It's the Hound!"

Stranger nickered and began pacing fretfully. "Shh, Stranger, calm now boy," Sandor whispered.

"And who is this?" a woman asked as she approached, flanked by two burly dark-haired men who looked like brothers, along with Ser Beric and Thoros of Myr. Sandor slowly got out of the saddle and reached his arms out for Sansa to help her dismount.

"Lady Wenda," Ser Beric said in his calm voice when Sansa was safely on the ground, "I have the great honor of introducing you to Sansa of House Stark, Princess of Winterfell, sister of Robb Stark, the King of the North. Princess Sansa, I give you Lady Wenda, the White Fawn of the Kingswood Brotherhood, the Queen of the Forest and Bane of Lions."

Sansa lowered into a graceful curtsy. "The honor is all mine, my lady. My sister Arya sang of you and your heroic deeds when we were at Winterfell." The courteous words flowed effortlessly from her mouth without her even having to think. When she arose, she studied the White Fawn more intently. The woman before her was of average height, with long pale blond hair lightened with threads of grey and clear blue eyes. She looked like she wasn't much older than Queen Cersei, but her skin was tanner and more weather-beaten and there were faint lines around her eyes and mouth, but she was still lovely. _Ageless_, Sansa remembered Septa Mordane saying. _Like my mother. Lady Wenda could be any age and still be beautiful. _

Lady Wenda smiled wryly and patted Sansa on the arm. "An honor indeed, to feast the princess of wolves. You are the daughter of Lord Eddard. He was a good and honorable man, although a bit too solemn for my taste. Still, one finds it difficult to encounter another of his like in these troubling times." Her delicate eyebrows rose as she turned from Sansa to Sandor. "Hound." The tone of her voice was considerably colder. The two men behind her frowned and fisted their hands. "I find I must give you congratulations on your betrothal." She nodded at Sansa. "And if I may give you some advice, let me say that you should remember that although they seem delicate and fragile, even winter roses have thorns. Do your best to ensure they don't prick you."

Sandor grunted behind her, and Sansa laid a hand on his arm. "Winter roses _do _have thorns, Lady Wenda. But when they are tended by the right gardener, their bloom and fragrance are always loveliest."

"I see," Lady Wenda answered with a smile. "Please, follow me. The hospitality of my house is yours. Allow my men to see to your horse."

Sansa started to follow the White Fawn, but noticed Sandor hanging back, looking extremely put out.

"What is it, my love?" Sansa asked. Lady Wenda stopped to listen.

Sandor glared balefully at the blonde woman. "Stranger doesn't like other people touching him. I'll see to him myself."

Lady Wenda shrugged. "As you wish. Come, Princess Sansa. I will find you a room."

"I don't trust anyone with my woman, either."

"I see no reason, Hound, why the Princess should go on longer without a hot bath, some mulled wine, clean clothes, and a decent meal just so you can insult me by insinuating that she is not safe in my care."

Sansa drew in a breath and turned wide eyes onto her love. His jaw had dropped in astonishment as he stared at Lady Wenda.

"You may see to your horse or follow your betrothed as you wish," the White Fawn continued calmly. "In any case, the Princess and I are going to have a long girlish chat at some point this night. Away from any men. I promise I won't eat her." With that she turned in a blur of blue leather and grey armor, her bearskin cloak billowing around her as she walked towards the castle. Ser Beric and the others followed.

Sansa hugged Sandor and smiled up at him. "I'll be just fine, my love," she promised. He clutched her arms and she stared into his eyes, basking the sight of his beloved craggy face.

"Little bird . . ." he began.

"I must go with her," Sansa whispered. "She won't hurt me."

"You can't know that," he said gruffly.

She cupped his scarred cheek. "I knew _you_ wouldn't hurt me. I knew Nymeria wouldn't hurt me. Was I wrong then?"

Sansa could see he knew he was beaten. He heaved a great sigh, hugged her tightly, and motioned her towards the crumbling castle. She gave him one last smile before following Lady Wenda's retinue up the grey granite stairs into a brightly lit great hall. Sansa stared in wonder. The right corner of the roof had crumbled in and stars shone through the hole, chunks of granite from the walls had fallen and were being used as tables and benches, and there were black discolorations on the stone from the castle having been once put to the torch. It was warm and clean, however, the rushes covering the floor were fresh, there were no cobwebs or dusty mildewing tapestries, torches and polished braziers blazed in the walls and a fire roared in the immense fireplace. Lines of colored fabric lined the ceiling, where there was one, and lay draped artistically over the tables and benches. Bunches of lavender and mint were spread across the floor, when she took a step, the scent wafted up pleasantly. As she followed Lady Wenda through the hall, she walked slower, trying to take in everything.

_It's like nothing I've ever seen before. It's so elegant, but it's so wild at the same time, like a storybook. The silks on the ceiling, all twisted together like a rainbow bursting, but with pieces of the starry night sky woven in. _She glanced at the table closest to her, a chunk of the wall that had been brightly polished. _Why, those are _knight's _banners, all sewn together to make a tablecloth! What's in those bowls?_ She thought as she inhaled deeply. _Oh, it smells lovely, like ambergris, winter roses and hmm . . . what else . . . oh, vanilla! _ Gazing rapturously around her, Sansa noticed the intricately carved wooden bowls full of dried flowers and spices were on every table. _It certainly smells better than the great hall at King's Landing._

People stared as they passed, from where they stood talking in groups or sitting at table eating and drinking or filling their trenchers from a table filled with food. Everyone seemed to serve themselves, there was no one walking around carrying wineskins or pitchers of ale. Instead, people drank from their own wineskins, strapped to their bodies with long cords, or brought back pitchers or cups of ale and water from the barrels that stood on tables in a dark corner well away from the fire.

Lady Wenda led her up a stairwell and down a hallway, then another and another until Sansa felt lost. Everything looked the same: worn grey granite, chipped wooden doors, rushes on the floor, nothing that would help her find her way. Finally, they reached a set of wooden double doors, thick and studded with iron, guarded by four armed men dressed in haphazard armor. Two of them opened the doors just in time for the Fawn to pass gracefully through.

"These are my own rooms," she told her. "I trust they will serve for the evening. I can have another room ready for you by tomorrow."

Sansa gratefully bowed her head. "Thank you ever so much, Lady Wenda."

"I am honored to be of service, Princess. Let me get a tub filled for you, and a crock of soap brought in. Sassy Nan makes the soap for the castle, and she always puts scented oil from Lys in it. This time I believe the batch smells of lavender and vanilla."

In no time at all, Sansa was much more comfortable than she had been in ages. She soaked luxuriously in a small copper tub, just large enough for her to sit with her arms clasped around her knees, smelling the luscious scented water and holding her second cup of mulled Dornish wine. Her stomach was full with what Lady Wenda called a _snack_ of puffy white bread, smoked trout, and blackberries in cream. She had stood in a washing bucket to be scrubbed down and have her hair washed by a much older woman who had white hair and a lined face, with a gentle touch. Sansa tried to talk to the woman but she shook her head and opened her mouth wide, pointing. She had no teeth, and her tongue had been pulled out. The woman held her hand up in a claw and made a growling sound. "Lions?" Sansa whispered, shuddering at the sight, and the woman nodded once before continuing her ministrations. After Sansa was rinsed clean she was led into a quiet little room with the tub in one corner; food and a flask of wine on a table next to it, heated by a brazier burning logs of applewood.

The door opened behind her and Sansa turned, startled, as Lady Wenda entered the room with a cup in one hand and a wineskin in the other. She walked close to the tub and peered at Sansa's body before nodding once and turning away.

"Just thought I'd come chat with you for a bit," she said, seating herself cross-legged on the floor. "I hate bathing alone, it's so boring."

"I . . . I suppose it can be," Sansa ventured, feeling embarrassed.

"So," Lady Wenda began, taking a drink of her wine. "You wish to wed Sandor Clegane. I see no bruises or other marks on your body, so he cannot have tortured you to force your vow to marry him. Has he threatened you or your kin?"

Sansa shook her head and sipped her wine. "No. It wasn't like that at all, Lady Wenda."

"Will you tell me your story, Princess?"

She looked at the White Fawn, studying the way she sat, relaxed but interested. She took a deep breath, then it all came pouring out: how excited she had been to know she would be queen, Joffrey's first kindnesses and how they turned to cruelty, Lady's death and the way she hated Arya after, Joffrey ignoring her, her first sight of King's Landing, the Hand's tournament and how excited she had been to attend, telling Queen Cersei her father's plan to get her and Arya to Winterfell, her father's beheading and how Joffrey had tricked her into thinking he would be merciful, her flowering and how Shae had helped her try to hide it, her fear of Joffrey and his mother, her beatings, how Sandor refused his king's command to beat her and did his best to keep her safe from Joffrey's madness. The wildfire on the night Stannis launched his ships against them, hiding in Maegor's Holdfast with the rest of the ladies of the court, Cersei telling her Ser Ilyn Payne would kill them all if Stannis won, how she ran terrified to her rooms with stomach churning. Sandor, and how he had come to her, stealing her away to keep her safe. How she realized she loved him, and he her, the way his lovemaking felt, how she could never live without him.

Sansa told it all, then lowered her head.

Lady Wenda was silent for a moment. "'Tis true, all you have told me?"

"It is. Every word."

"Then it is amazing, how loving someone can change a person." She looked down at her cup sadly. "I know myself how loving someone can make you something other than what you are." She stood up, draining the last of her cup. "You have convinced me that you have not been coerced or otherwise threatened to marry. Clegane's actions in bringing you here and honoring his vows to you and the Brotherhood show that he is acting honorably. I will speak to Ser Beric, Princess. Day after next, you will wed your Sandor. May the gods in their wisdom grant you better luck in love than I have had."


	6. Chapter 6

SANDOR

"Seven bloody hells," he mumbled under his breath as he tugged once more on the collar of his tunic.

"It's your wedding, man," Thoros of Myr grinned up at him, "you shouldn't scowl so. 'Tis a happy occasion."

Sandor gifted him with a glare that would terrify most men. _Fucking red priest,_ he thought sullenly.

Thoros pointed at his own garb. "Lady Wenda insisted we dress fine, and so we all must obey. I will admit, however, these clothes are bloody uncomfortable."

Sandor scowled harder and ran a finger around the soft fox fur lining his throat. _The Others take the Fawn and her stupid clothes,_ he thought sullenly. _The sooner I can get rid of this thrice-cursed cloak, the better. Bugger ever wearing it again. The Fawn can shove a stick up her arse._ He looked down at himself and sighed. _I look like a bloody peacock._

The White Fawn had insisted on giving his little bird as grand a wedding as she could provide. Sandor protested vehemently, not wanting to stand in front of the entire castle as he said his vows, but the Fawn was resolute. "Princess Sansa has been through seven hells and back," she told him in her musical voice. "She deserves to have a lovely wedding, especially since her family won't be there. She is also a princess, and should celebrate such a special occasion with all the honor due to her rank. Surely, if you love her, you will give her this." He discussed it with Sansa, when he told her what he wanted and what the Fawn planned, she had lowered her head demurely and told him she would follow his wishes and his alone. But the way her eyes had glistened before she cast her gaze to the floor, and the way she clasped her trembling hands together proved her true desire had wrung his heart. So he had relented, telling the Fawn to make whatever plans she wished.

A day was spent cleaning the castle, hanging garlands of flowers the women had woven, preparing the feast and wedding ale. Sandor spent his time hunting with the other men, while Sansa was constantly surrounded by a chattering group of women, choosing her wedding clothes from the meager supply of finery the castle had to offer. _A flock of cackling hens_, he thought once as he watched the women putting his little bird's hair this way and that, as they decided how to arrange it for the wedding. The people of the Brotherhood took to his Sansa immediately, excited to host the Princess of the North, but he could see they were beginning to like her for herself. His eyes followed her as she flitted about, helping here and there, smiling and laughing and talking more than he had ever seen her do. Her eyes sparkled and her cheeks were constantly flushed, she was courteous as she always had been but there was friendliness in her tone that had never been there when she was in King's Landing.

_She's no longer hiding behind her courtesy, _Sandor thought; _her words aren't forced and emotionless. She's naturally a happy, polite person. _He realized he had never truly known his little bird: the timid, quiet creature who hid behind an expressionless mask of courtesy that he had known in King's Landing was not the real Sansa. _This _was the real Sansa, this joyous laughing beauty that made his groin ache whenever she met his gaze, and she looked at him often.

It was for her that he had allowed himself to be dressed in the too-tight brown breeches, the white linen shirt that was too short in the arms, the abominably uncomfortable blue and silver tunic and the turquoise-green cloak with its tight, itchy foxfur collar. He was aware of the stares of the people gathered in the Great Hall and for a moment wished he was gone, anywhere but there, standing on the dais in front of every inhabitant of Oldstones Castle with fat Septon Bartholl sweating heavily before him. Sandor glared at the ground. "Seven bloody hells," he grumbled again.

Thoros nudged him with his elbow and jerked his chin towards the door. "If seeing _that_ doesn't make uncomfortable clothes worth it, I don't know what will."

Sandor looked and his jaw dropped open. His Sansa was entering the Great Hall on Harwin's arm, and the sight took his breath away.

"If I believed in the Seven, I would think she was the Maid come to life," Thoros commented.

Sandor didn't believe in the Seven, or any other gods, but he couldn't help but agree. Just looking at her made all the bother and discomfort absolutely worth it. She approached him with a shy smile, dressed in a simple blue gown trimmed with ermine, clutching a bouquet of white roses. A sapphire and diamond pendant nestled between her breasts, hanging from a silver chain, presumably a loan from one of the women as he didn't remember seeing the necklace among his little bird's small jewelry collection they had brought from King's Landing. She wore a small matching tiara in her elaborately curled hair, left loose and flowing down her back. Her bride's cloak was white satin trimmed with grey velvet, emblazoned with the direwolf sigil of her House. _Where'd she get that?_

As she drew closer, he saw that the cloak was held in place by her silver direwolf brooch. _Her father gave her that brooch on her ninth nameday. _ Sandor remembered her telling him one night under their furs. _I'm sure he never would have thought she'd be wearing it as she wed the Hound. _ His heart ached as he realized just how lucky he was.

Suddenly Sansa was standing before him, smiling radiantly. "My love," she whispered, and reached out to take his hand.

He turned with her and faced the septon, who began to speak. Sandor repeated the words he was told to say without understanding them, his gaze never leaving that of his Sansa. The septon turned to the young woman beside him, and Sandor heard Sansa's beautiful voice speaking. "Father. Smith. Warrior. Mother. Maiden. Crone. Stranger. I am his, and he is mine, from this day, until the end of my days." Then she was turning, waiting for him to remove her wedding cloak. Sandor stood for a moment, unsure of what to do, until Thoros nudged him.

"Here," he said quietly, handing him a parcel. "A gift from the Brotherhood."

Sandor unwrapped it to find a yellow velvet cloak, lined with black satin. Three black hounds were sewn on the back. He stared at it, and then looked at Thoros in amazement.

Thoros raised his eyebrow. "Now you are supposed to put it on her," he whispered in an amused tone. Sansa suppressed a small giggle behind her hand.

He let his breath out in a rush and turned to unclasp Sansa's cloak, handing it to Thoros before draping the yellow one around her shoulders. As he bent to kiss his new bride, a great cheer went up around the Great Hall. He clutched Sansa tightly as they were surrounded by well-wishers who offered their congratulations to him, and their blessings to his wife.

_Wife. I am wed, and to my little bird. I, Sandor Clegane, am _married._ Married to Sansa Stark. No, now she is Lady Sansa Clegane. _ The thought left him dumbfounded.

The feasting and merriment lasted well into the night, but Sandor could remember none of it the next day. He vaguely recollected being undressed by the Fawn and several other women at some point, but was completely oblivious to aught else until his wife was brought to him, carried half-naked and blushing prettily by a laughing Harwin, Jack-be-Lucky, and Arguy. There had been a burst of jealousy at the thought of other hands undressing his beauty, but then she was in bed beside him, they were alone, her hands and lips were on him, and the night passed in a haze of pleasure. They awoke in the early afternoon, by the White Fawn herself, who brought them a covered tray, grinned at Sansa, and left abruptly.

"What is this?" Sansa asked as she lifted a small vial that had been tucked away between a loaf of fine white bread and a wedge of cheese.

Sandor took it from her and opened it, just as curious as she was. "It's blood," he told her, and his brow furrowed in confusion. _Why would the Fawn send us blood?_ he wondered, before an inkling of an idea came to him. "Little bird, did you tell the woman you were no longer a maid?"

His beauty . . . it was still too strange to call her _wife_, nodded slowly. "Yes, husband." She grinned, and he could tell she was thrilled to name him as such, but then her grin faded. "Are you angry with me?"

"No," he answered. "But now I know what this is for." She watched him carefully as he went to the bed and poured the contents of the vial onto the white, rumpled sheet before tossing the vial into the hearthfire. "The Fawn is preserving your honor."

"And yours. I . . . I think she is kind," Sansa murmured as she poured them both ale. "I think . . ." she looked at him timidly "I think I will be happy here. Of course it will be awful, when you are gone, but . . . I like the castle, and I like Lady Wenda, and Melly, and the others."

He enfolded her into his arms. "Don't ever be afraid to tell me what you think, little bird. Never. I may rant and storm at some things, but I'll always want to know your mind."

"I love you so much, husband," Sansa smiled at him with tear-filled eyes. "So much. I feel . . . like I'm so filled with love and happiness I may burst."

"Wife," he murmured before pressing his lips against her own. His hands began trailing down her spine, but before he could slide the chamber robe from her nude body, insistent knocking came from the door.

"What is it?" Sandor shouted gruffly.

"We've come for the sheets," a female voice giggled. Sighing loudly, Sandor pulled on his breeches and opened the door to admit four of the castles' women, who unhesitatingly gathered around the bed, commenting on the blood. "The marriage has been consummated!" one of them announced as they stripped the bed and left to hang the sheet in the Great Hall as was the custom.

"I suppose we must go down now," Sansa said after they had gone.

Sandor shook his head and bolted the door. "No, little bird. Not yet." He strode over and took her chin in his hand. "Not until I've thoroughly fucked you."

She gasped and stood trembling as her robe dropped to the floor, closing her eyes while he ran his hands gently over her body. Sandor's breath hitched and he felt himself grow hard as he ran his callused palms over her nipples before dropping to his knees and taking one in his mouth. He massaged one breast, then the other, suckling as hard as he dared, until both nipples were red and erect and Sansa was moaning. Pinching them lightly, he leaned back on his knees and looked up at her. "If I had my way," he said huskily, "I would suck those pretty pink nipples all day long." He chuckled at her shocked expression and the blush that followed.

Sandor lifted her suddenly and tossed her gently on the bed. Her giggle was cut off by a moan as he spread her legs open and put a finger on her slit, rubbing the little mound of flesh at the top. Slowly, he slid one finger inside her, marveling at how wet she was. Her eyelids fluttered and she moaned again deeply as he inserted another, moving his fingers in and out as his thumb rubbed her most sensitive spot. He watched her expression as he moved faster, looked at her hands clenching the blankets, at her hair spread across the featherbed, then back to her lovely face as her body contorted and she let out a great shuddering moan. The feeling of her woman-parts tightening and releasing against his fingers intoxicated him. "Are you ready to be fucked, wife?" he asked as he stood to remove his breeches.

Sansa met his gaze, panting hard. "Oh, Sandor."

"Wife, I asked you if you were ready to be fucked."

"Yes," she whispered.

"Are you sure, little bird?"

She threw her arms out to him. "Yes, please!"

"What was that?" He stroked his member, enjoying her blushes.

"Yes. Please. Please, please . . . please fuck me," Sansa begged, blushing harder.

He knelt between her legs, teasing her with his cock. "I never thought to hear that word pass my lovely wife's lips," he murmured. "I thought I wed a lady."

Sansa raked his back with her nails and tried to push herself on him. Sandor laughed and pulled back. "No, no little wife. I want to hear you beg some more."

"By all the gods, Sandor, please fuck me. Please fuck me now!" she cried.

"As my lady wife wishes," he growled in her ear as he entered her. Her grip on his back tightened as he moved in and out, her moans became louder when he lifted her slender legs onto his shoulders.

"Oh Sandor, Sandor, please, please . . ."

His name on her lips made him shudder with the pleasure of it, and he began thrusting harder. He felt her reach her climax once more and pulled out long enough to flip her over onto her hands and knees, entering her again before she could protest. Sansa moaned so loud she was almost screaming as he gripped her hips, pounding her as hard as he thought he could without hurting her. Sandor trailed a hand up her back to grip her hair in his fist, reveling in the feeling of her tight wet cunt on his cock and the sight of her lovely white rump against the darkness of the hair on his groin.

"Oh gods," Sansa screamed as she convulsed again.

"Are you ready for my seed, little bird?" Sandor rasped as he felt himself reach breaking point, holding tightly to her hips while he spent into her. He groaned as he pulled out and collapsed onto the bed beside her, drawing her still shuddering body into his arms.

"My love, I . . ."

"Have just been thoroughly fucked," he said smugly as she tried to stand, but failed. "_Now_ we can go down. If you can walk."

It didn't take them long to dress and make their way down to the Great Hall. The White Fawn sat at one of the tables, playing piquet with Tym, Jack-be-Lucky, and Arguy. She lifted a slender blonde brow as they approached, taking in Sansa's still-flushed face and undignified gait. Sandor frowned and took his wife's hand. Wenda merely smiled and nodded at him.

"So you are truly wed? The marriage has been consummated?" she asked in an amused tone.

His Sansa blushed and looked at her feet before excusing herself to go fill two trenchers with stew. Sandor stood for a few minutes, shifting from one foot to the other until Wenda invited him to sit.

"Ser Sandor," Lady Wenda began, keeping one eye on Sansa. "I want to ask your advice on a certain proposal Beric has brought up."

"What?" Sandor asked gruffly.

She toyed with her hair before continuing. "Beric has discussed this idea with me, and I think it is a good idea . . . How would you feel if your wife wrote a letter to her mother and brother, informing them of her marriage?"

Sandor sat stiffly for a few moments. "I don't think it is a good idea. Not yet."

Wenda nodded. "Yes. I agree that they shouldn't be told she is wed to a Clegane, but I think it would be well if Princess Sansa let her mother know she is out of the hands of her enemies. It may bring her mother some small comfort."

He considered this, chewing his lip as he contemplated the idea. "If Sansa wishes it, let it be done."

The Fawn considered him for a moment. "You will allow her to write to them, then?"

Sandor nodded. "As I said, if it is her wish, I will not oppose it." He looked at her curiously, noting the way she drummed her fingers nervously on the table. "There is more, isn't there? Writing the letter? It's not just for Lady Stark's comfort, is it?"

"You are perceptive. No, it is not solely for Lady Stark's comfort." The White Fawn leaned back and crossed her arms. "There has already been mutterings about your wedding Princess Sansa. Most don't like it. And when you consider the fact that we cannot ransom her, well . . ." She spread her hands and shrugged.

"I see," Sandor growled. "You hope to get gold for delivering the letter."

"Yes. But not only for that, Hound. You must understand the difficulty I am in. Letting her wed you angered many. If we get gold for passing a few letters here and there, it may make some . . . how should I put it . . . less wroth?"

Sandor nodded. He understood, and even felt a little bit grateful for the Fawn's ingenuity. "I understand. Anything for my little bird. I'll allow her to write a letter."

"Then it shall be done." She looked around the Hall, crooking her finger at Dondarrion, who stood talking to Ser Gerold. "Ah, Beric, there you are! The Hound and I were just speaking of the letter we discussed!"

Dondarrion approached the table, giving Wenda a slight bow. "And?"

"It shall be written," Wenda answered.

"Good." Dondarrion nodded at Sandor. "It must be written today, for we leave at first light."


	7. Chapter 7

7: SANSA

She stared at the red circle painted on the leather stretched over a bale of hay with a look of dread. _It must hit the circle. This time, it must hit the circle._

Taking a breath, she released the arrow, her gaze never wavering from the circle. There was a _thwack _sound, but to her dismay the red circle was still intact.

"Wenda, this is pointless!" Sansa complained, turning to her friend. "I just can't _do _it!" She could have stomped her foot in a temper, but she knew it would do no good.

As they had almost every day since she had come to live at Oldstones, Wenda and Sansa stood at the edge of the archery range set up in the courtyard, surrounded by the other girls and women who were either learning to shoot, or whose turn it was to practice what they had already learned. _If only my lady mother could see me now, _Sansa thought, eyeing the yew bow in her hands with distaste before glancing around the courtyard. _She wouldn't recognize me. _She looked at the five targets that had been set up in front of the inner wall, then back at the others, who were surreptitiously watching her and pretending to shoot their own bows at the same time.

"Try again, Sansa," Wenda insisted, her tone encouraging. "All it takes is practice."

"You can do it, Princess!" little Mayra chirped from down the row, black curls bobbing around her sweet, heart-shaped face. Her solemn older sister Maryana nodded, putting a restraining hand on the younger girl's head.

"I was worse than you, when I first got here," Maryana said quietly, brushing her coal black hair from her face. "My lady Princess."

Sansa stepped forward, feeling foolish and awkward as she struggled to notch an arrow and fit it to the bowstring. She drew in a breath, as Wenda had taught her, and strained to pull the arrow back. _Empty your mind, take a deep breath, and just _shoot_._ _Don't think of the circle. _ She blinked once to clear her mind before releasing the arrow and closed her eyes, knowing she was going to fail again. She heard a _thwack_ at the end of the range and started to sigh before she looked upon her next failure but was pleasantly surprised to heat clapping and even a few shouts of encouragement. Sansa's eyes flew open to see the arrow sticking through the bullseye.

"Well done!" Wenda cheered her. "You hit the target!"

Sansa turned to the others and smiled shyly.

"Great job, milady," Wendy called out, her tone blazing with hate. Sansa wasn't fazed. It was how the woman always talked and she knew her anger wasn't directed towards herself. Her real name was Wenda, as her mother and Lady Wenda had been great friends during their childhood. She looked nothing like the tall, willowy leader of the Kingswood Brotherhood, being short and pudgy with nut brown hair and eyes that were both hard and sad and angry at the same time. Wendy's husband and four children had been butchered by the Bloody Mummers during one of their forays in the Riverlands years ago. She had somehow made her way to the White Fawn, with nothing but the bloody clothes she wore and a desire to hunt down and kill each and every man who claimed to be a Brave Companion.

Beautiful blond haired, grey eyed Alerie Darry stood next to her, smiling and clapping. She had two children named Yarra and Isidra, three-month-old twins born at Oldstones. She was the only other highborn woman besides Sansa who had joined Lady Wenda's group, being the daughter of Ser Clement Piper, one of Riverrun's bannermen. She had been courted by and wedded to a younger son of Ser Lyman Derry whom she had loved very much. Sansa could only hang her head in embarrassment when she learned that Alerie's man had died fighting for King Robb at the Battle of Whispering Wood, after being wed only one moon's turn. It had broken Alerie's heart to lose him, but knowing she was pregnant gave her new hope. She would have happily stayed at Castle Derry with her godmother, but her father demanded her return. The train of soldiers sent to accompany her way home to Pinkmaiden were accosted by Lannister bannermen as they plodded down a narrow forest trail. The moment the shouts began, Alerie slid out of her litter into some bushes by the side of the road and crawled slowly through them into the safety of the woods. She was found three days later by the Brotherhood Without Banners. When they found out who she was, they wanted to ransom her, but Alerie begged them not to, so persistently that they brought her to Oldstones to judge what should be done. Makiya had told her one day that Alerie had spoken to Wenda alone, and the Fawn had emerged from the room with her lips pressed together and anger in her eyes.

"_She looked at Ser Beric as cold as I've ever seen her look, Princess, and said Alerie was under no circumstances to be returned to her beast of a father."_

Sansa's gaze rested on Maryana and Mayra, who were her favorite companions, even though they were younger than she. Maryana told Sansa they both were the daughter of a whore from Storm's End. Both girls had the same father, and their father was a great lord, to hear their mother tell it. It was the lord who funded the little family's move to the capital when the girls were infants, into rooms in a brothel in King's Landing. Their accommodations were much better than those they occupied in Storm's End, and their mother was kept solely for their father's pleasure, so their lives passed pleasantly for a time. The seasons passed, and their father's visits dwindled before becoming nonexistent. He became a fading memory as their mother began working for the brothel and life was much the same as it had been until she died suddenly of a fever.

"The mistress kept us, as we were handy at serving wine and food to the customers, and she liked having us around her," Maryana said, her blue eyes solemn. "We liked living with her and helping her. She was always so kind. One day, the mistress came into the room as we were folding her clothes. She pushed us into a chest and told us to be quiet. We heard heavy footsteps, so loud my ears hurt. They asked for the two young black haired girls that had been known to work here. I held my hand to Marya's mouth while the mistress told them the girls had been caught stealing gold and food, so she had kicked them out. She said the last she heard of the little monsters was that they had died in Flea Bottom. The soldiers left. It seemed like hours we stayed in the dark before Mistress opened the chest. She was crying, milady. She hugged us tight, gave me a small bag of silver, kissed us, and took us out through a tunnel in the hearth in 'Yaya's chambers. She told us to leave King's Landing, and never come back. She said men were looking for us and would hurt us if they found . . ." She sighed and shook her head. "The mistress misses us, I know. She would cuddle us and tell us stories every morning. She wouldn't let the men misuse us, no matter how much gold they offered for our maidenheads. I didn't know the soldiers meant us! I didn't know! Why would they want _us_?"

Maryana's voice had cracked and she put a hand to her mouth. Sansa couldn't help it. She had hugged the girl tightly and they both began sobbing for people lost and lives that had changed so drastically.

She clutched the bow tighter and glanced at the others, those whom it was harder to get to know. Sayde and Haleyna were both melancholy women who rarely talked. Haleyna was a stout woman with brown hair and eyes with a long scar on her face, pulling down the side of her mouth. Her teeth were almost all gone, and her face held a constant expression of pain. Sayde was younger, skinny as a stick, with mousy brown hair and watery pale blue eyes. The only thing that Sansa knew about her was that she had been a maid at Harrenhall. Ysabet, Nessie, and Tara were older than Sansa by several years and tended to stick together, solemn and quiet. Brown haired, green eyed Nessie was the daughter of the castle cook, Sylla, and her father had been an outlaw before he was hanged by a son of Walder Frey. She could shoot the bullseye like she had been born with arrow and bow in hand. Tara was the only one who had both father and mother still living. Her mother and four younger brothers lived in the castle, while her father, Jack-Be-Lucky rode with Ser Beric. With her honey colored hair and light blue eyes, she had attracted many men, but it was grumpy Lem who had somehow stolen her heart, and they were to wed the next time he returned. Of wild looking Ysabet, Sansa knew nothing.

Ysabet, Nessie, Tara, and Alerie were all watching her as Sansa stared at the swanfeather-tipped end of the arrow buried in the target. _I did it! I did hit the target! _She ran a finger along the bowstring, feeling vastly pleased with herself. Wenda laid her hand on her shoulder.

"We've been at this for too long, my dear. Let's break our fast before we practice your horsemanship."

Sighing quietly, Sansa turned to follow Wenda into the castle. _At least archery practice went well for me today. Gods be good and let my luck continue._ Inside, she accepted a trencher of bread from Sylla the cook and went to fill it with a savory-looking squirrel stew from the common table before going to find a seat next to Wenda. People nodded and smiled at her as she passed, and Sansa, ever courteous and mindful of her rank that she was now a princess, responded in kind. As she ate, she half-listened to Wenda and Tym, the second in command as they discussed repairs to the castle, but then her mind started to wander.

_Six weeks it's been since I've seen Sandor,_ Sansa reflected, _and four months since I've been at Oldstones. _At first, after Sandor and the Brotherhood had left, Sansa brooded quietly in her room, missing her husband. After a few days of this, Wenda encouraged her to follow as she walked about the castle giving orders, praising people here and scolding others there, observing the training of the younger members of her band and giving them encouragement. Slowly, Sansa began to take an interest in the castle and its near two hundred inhabitants, and began helping when she could, spending hours with Tulla and Makiya, the castle's seamstresses, using her skill in sewing and embroidery to repair clothing and tapestries, make sheets and towels and other basic necessities. Wenda drew her out of her shell even more by asking her how this or that was done in Winterfell, or King's Landing, and both she and Sansa were surprised by her knowledge.

One day, a week after Sandor left the first time, Wenda led her to the archery range and spoke quietly to Harrold, the weapons master. He disappeared into the weapon keep and emerged carrying a child size bow and quiver of arrows. Sansa remembered staring at them as if Harrold carried a snake. "Sansa, I'd like you to try something," Wenda told her. "While you are under my care, you cannot remain idle. Nor do I think you should spend all your time using skills you have already mastered." She handed Sansa the bow and an arrow. "You know all the necessary skills of a lady. Now let me teach you how to survive."

The first lesson was horrid. A shiver ran down her spine at the memory and she took another spoonful of stew, remembering how she ached afterward. _It has gotten easier, though. I'm a lot stronger than I once was, and I don't hurt as bad at the end of the day._ She hated the new routine at first, upset at not being petted and protected, embarrassed at doing things so unladylike. She rose in the morning at dawn, washed her face and braided her hair. Every day she wore the same garb: soft woolen leggings, a hip length linen shift, a long sleeved wool tunic that ended at her knees and split up the thighs, and long leather boots. The other women dressed the same way without thinking anything of it, and Wenda had explained that the way they dressed was for a very practical reason: one could run away faster in a short tunic than they could in a gown. Still, Sansa felt oddly naked and strange.

Every day she met Wenda at the archery range and submitted herself to the series of stretches and exercises designed to improve her strength and agility, silently cursing the gods every moment she spent standing on one leg, holding a heavy stone in each hand as she lifted them shoulder height and held them there. She hated running from one end of the courtyard to the other, huffing and puffing with exertion, sweat pouring down her red face as Wenda ran calmly beside her. _How does she run so effortlessly? _she always thought, _she hasn't even broken a sweat . . . _ After running their two laps, for one hour Sansa attempted to learn how to shoot a bow. She winced, not wanting to relive those awful first lessons. She hated it, and knew that _Wenda _knew she hated it, but Wenda had been encouraging, and Sansa persistent, not wanting to let her mentor down.

They always broke their fast after and at first Sansa would bless the gods for the chance to sit down. Slowly, she became aware that people were eying her oddly. It disconcerted her, thinking they were reproaching her for her unladylike behavior, so unlike what a princess should be, and she began to look upon mealtimes as a trial. It wasn't until Harwin took her aside one day, asking after her health, that she hesitantly asked him about it. She was surprised when he laughed.

"It isn't that, Princess," he chuckled, pulling on her braid gently as he had done when she was a child at Winterfell, "it's quite the opposite."

"What do you mean?"

"Princess, these people respect you because you _are _trying to learn. You are among outlaws, they live by different rules. To one who has to pack up and run at a moment's notice, spending days in the woods hiding from soldiers, learning to shoot and ride and find food is a sign of strength."

"Ladies are supposed to _be _protected, not protect themselves," Sansa said automatically, repeating Septa Mordane word for word, having heard her speak them to Arya at least a dozen times a day.

Harwin shook his head. "Not now. Not anymore. The world has changed, Princess. We of the Brotherhood are the only ones who have changed with it."

She shook her head, and he lifted her chin with his finger, rolling his eyes dramatically. "Princess, what I am trying to tell you is that we respect you more because you have shown us you have common sense."

_Oh, _she remembered thinking. _Well, truly, who would be so stupid as to not learn if they can? I can die at any time, so can my Sandor. Why not know how to protect myself if I can? _Her dread of mealtimes faded, and Sansa became a little less indignant about her new lessons.

Each day, after they ate, she and Wenda headed to the stables, where Sansa learnt how to saddle and groom a horse. She learned these tasks quickly and thought well of herself until she learned what followed: getting on the animal and _riding_ the beast. Of course, she had ridden before, her father made her ride round and round their courtyard as a girl and once she, Jeyne Poole and Beth Cassel had followed her father and brothers while they hunted, all three riding Hullen's oldest horses. She rode part of the way from Winterfell to King's Landing, but that was on a fat old palfrey down an actual road. The only other time she had ever spent on horseback was on Stranger, but it was her Sandor holding the reins and she hadn't been afraid. The creature that Wenda had chosen for Sansa was a red mare, a forest-born mountain pony, and although she was beautiful and gentle, she was still so _big_.

The first few weeks of riding were spent in the courtyard learning how to gallop and canter and trot, how to use her legs as well as the reins to guide the horse where she wanted her to go. That was bad enough, she ached horribly in her legs and buttocks for hours afterward, but then Wenda began taking her into the forest. Accompanied by Wenda's guard, they followed game trails through the wood, sometimes truly hunting, where they flew through the underbrush jumping creeks and logs while Sansa tried not to vomit from terror, or they went slowly, while Wenda and her guards pointed out aspects of the forest she had never thought of before.

"Look there, Princess," said Wenda once, pointing at a cluster of tiny yellow flowers on a long stem, "boil a handful of these in a cup of water for two minutes and drink the tea if you've been bitten by an adder."

"See how those leaves are bent, how they're still green? Something passed this way recently," Harwin said as they inspected one trail. "It's big, but not a deer or any other plant eater."

"How do you know?" asked Sansa, curious.

He jumped from his horse and inspected the brush more thoroughly. "Nothings been eaten, the branches have only been snapped back as the beast passed."

Sansa nodded at a tuft of black fur hanging from a branch. "What's that?"

Harwin picked it up and held it out to her. "Bear fur. And look, there is its waste." He showed her a pile of feces further down the trail. "It's fresh." The others drew their weapons. "No more than a couple hours old." That night they had bear stew for dinner.

_It's really . . . not so bad, _she thought as she spooned up more stew. _It's not ladylike, but it's exciting. Especially when I actually hit the target. _Sansa frowned slightly. _But Sandor . . . Sandor will be so wroth when he finds out what I'm doing. _

"Sansa, let's go," Wenda said pleasantly, interrupting her train of thought. "It's time for your riding lesson."

Sansa stood obediently and followed her mentor to the stables.

_My love, please don't be angry with me._


	8. Chapter 8

8: SANDOR

It had been a cold, wet night. Sandor sighed, tried to run a hand through his soaked, tangled hair, and settled for rubbing his eyes instead. He looked around their camp, noting where each man slept or sat. The boy, snoring next to the smoky, dwindling fire. Dondarrion, sitting staring at the meager flames with the red priest beside him, rubbing his sword with a cloth. The ugly man called Merrit o'Moontown, sleeping sitting against a tree, dagger in hand. Watty and Jack on the other side of the fire, the top half of their bodies under a makeshift lean-to to keep the rain off their faces. Lem, curled up in his lemon-yellow cloak under the thick branch of an oak tree. Harwin would have been there as well, but his Melly was about to give birth and Yara the midwife thought she would have a hard birth so he had stayed in Oldstones.

He and Anguy had drawn the second-to-last watch that night, and their turn was almost over, judging by the color of the sky and position of the moon. _What short sights we have of them. _Sandor clenched his fist. _In less than a week, I'll see my little bird. _The thought of his wife made his chest ache. _I need to be with her. I need to know she's safe. _He'd seen Sansa several times since pledging himself to the Brotherhood Without Banners, but only for a few days at a time. He and his wife both had duties at the castle that were important and necessary. Sandor spent most days at the castle helping to repair its outer wall and maintain its other defenses or practicing his swordsmanship with the other warriors, but other times Dondarrion asked him to do other things like teach children to curry and otherwise care for a horse or tutor the older boys in swordplay.

He didn't mind doing his share of the work when it came to the defenses of the castle, or sparring with the other men, but he felt having to work with children was too much. Sandor scowled as he recalled the aggravating lessons in horse care. _All the bloody questions. Why this and why that 'til my head ached and I wanted to curse them. _ He had never gave in to his temper once, however, knowing Dondarrion was watching. _Always waiting for me to do something wrong. _The thought of his Sansa kept him strong, and he did as he was told without complaining aloud, yet in his head he cursed them all time and again.

The snatches of time he had with his little bird made everything worth it. Sitting next to her at mealtimes, the rare days they both had an hour to spare, the nights he was not chosen to guard the gates or stand on the watchtower, the glorious first several hours after returning to the castle when they and most everyone else took a short break from their duties to celebrate being together. Just seeing her beautiful face made him content, looking at her glorious naked body with her sweet pink nipples and the silky auburn hair covering her most private spot filled him with a glorious bliss he almost couldn't bear.

_Sansa, _he thought yearningly as his cock stiffened at the thought of her perfect body. Recently, he had noticed her body was changing, turning firmer and tighter and stronger. Women's bodies changed into more mature figures as they entered their late teens, he knew, growing larger breasts and hips, or growing taller, or their faces lost the last vestiges of baby roundness. _I didn't know their arms grew muscular. Last time I rubbed Sansa's arms, I could feel the strength in them. And her thighs look as if she rides often. Oh Gods, her thighs . . . and her arse, by all the gods, she has the most beautiful arse, so firm and . . . _He stopped, feeling uneasy. Sandor adored his wife's body, but there was something about her strength, the way she moved so silently, that made him feel as if he were missing something important.

Someone nudged him. Sandor jumped and turned quickly, drawing his dagger.

"Whoa, man!" Anguy held a hand up as he handed him a waterskin.

Sheathing his dagger, Sandor glared at him. "It would be best if you didn't startle me."

"I'll remember that, next time I'll sneeze or something." Anguy grinned at him. "It's two hours or so 'til dawn," the archer said quietly. "I'll wake Lem and Edric."

Sandor nodded curtly and took a long drink from the skin, wrinkling his nose. Dondarrion allowed no wine or ale during their forays and being forced to drink plain water disgusted him still, even after months of it. _Curse him to seven bloody hells. Can't drink properly unless we're at Oldstones._ He glared down at the waterskin, doing his best not to throw it at Dondarrion's head.

"Ser Sandor, I will relieve you now," little Edric Dayne, the Lord of Starfall, told him politely.

"I'm no ser," Sandor growled, turning to face the little lord. "Lord Boy." _Little bastard hasn't seen his thirteenth nameday. Probably won't, either._

The boy stiffened in anger, but collected himself and bowed curtly. "As you wish," he said through his teeth.

Sandor took another swig from the waterskin, grimaced, and shoved it into the boy's arms. "Here. Pretend it's an Arbor Gold."

The boy stared at him with a mixture of disgust and fear. Sandor ignored him and lay on his sleeping furs, trying not to mind the damp. Being called 'ser' always annoyed him, especially since Dondarrion persistently tried to convince Sandor to allow him to touch his sword to his shoulders on a daily basis. Sandor refused every time.

"My brother is the ser, the knight," was his excuse every time. "And look how he turned out! I'll never be a ser, and that's that, Dondarrion."

"All men of the Brotherhood have been knighted, except those who are of squire age," Dondarrion always argued.

"I'm not meant to be here long now, am I?" Sandor would retort.

He grumbled a bit about sers and knights to himself before falling asleep. He woke to the others calling greetings to each other as they did at sunrise every day. They ate a cold breakfast of deer jerky, dried strawberries, and a hard yellow cheese that reeked faintly of ale before saddling their mounts and riding off through the forest.

Sandor plodded along behind Jack-Be-Lucky, absentmindedly pondering Sansa, when Anguy's voice startled him.

"It's deathly quiet," the redhead said warily. "Listen."

The others stopped and listened silently, Sandor included. He could hear nothing except the breathing of the others and their horses. _No birds, no squirrels, no wind._

Instinctually, he drew his sword, his gaze darting left to right, scanning the vegetation. Dondarrion and most of the others had their swords in hand as well. Anguy had an arrow nocked, Jack had his pair of axes, and the boy his spear. Together they waited, listening hard.

It all happened so fast.

One minute he was scanning the forest, the next he heard a scream of pain and turned to see Jack falling from his horse with a quarrel in his back. Jack's horse whinnied and reared as another quarrel got the beast in the flank. Dondarrion shouted, waving his sword as a fat Dothraki emerged from behind a tree, swinging an _arakh _and calling out a war cry in his own tongue. Sandor roared his own cry and turned in the saddle, slashing out at a man dressed in motley as he leapt out from the bushes. The man dodged, grinning madly as he swung his own sword to meet Sandor's. The others were shouting and their horses neighed wildly as they were set upon by men appearing from the forest.

"It's the Bloody Mummers!" Sandor heard Lem shout before his voice became a scream.

With a quick thrust of his sword, Sandor beheaded his opponent with one blow and turned to meet the next, a tall Summer Islander wearing a cape of blood-red feathers. Metal rang against metal as Stranger whinnied loudly and kicked out at a third man coming at him from the back. Sandor finished the Summer Islander with a slash to the chest and turned to parry the other man's sword before it stabbed Stranger in the stomach. The big warhorse sensed his danger and kicked out again, this time hitting the man on the temple. He dropped to his knees, his sword falling from his hands. Sandor didn't hesitate to run his sword through the man's neck.

Lem was screaming again, over and over, and Sandor realized he could smell burning flest. He whipped Stranger around to see the boy lord raise his bloody spear and shout "Starfall! Starfall! A Dayne!" before spurring his horse and charging another Dothraki. Jack was still on the ground; Dondarrion and Thoros were on foot, their horses lying with arrows sticking out of them like porcupines, fighting three Mummers back to back. Merrit and Watty were still ahorse, both of them riding towards their leader and the priest. They dispatched the last of the Mummers quickly. Anguy, who had been behind Sandor, suddenly leapt to the ground and ran towards the Lord of Starfall. Sandor forced himself to catch his breath and focus as he watched Anguy shove the little lord's horse away to reveal something bright and orange behind him.

He smelled the burning flesh more intensely now, and was startled to see that it was _Lem_ who was on fire, lying on the ground and screaming no more, his entire body a mass of flame. Anguy tried to throw his cloak over the body, but Thoros stopped him.

"No, lad," he said solemnly. "Lem is gone. R'hllor has taken him for his own. He has the honor of entering the Lord of Light's presence as a burning sacrifice, cleansed by the flame."

Sandor stared at the burning man in horror. The stench began to burn his nostrils, making him recall the most painful memory of his life, and he could handle no more. Abruptly he turned Stranger and kicked him into a gallop, doing his best to get as far away as possible. He didn't know how long or far he went, letting Stranger slow when the horse grew tired before the beast stopped altogether, panting hard. Sandor slid off and staggered a few steps, his head spinning with nausea. He bent over and vomited until nothing more would come out of his stomach. The memory of his pain, and that of Lem as he died, tore him apart inside. All thought of his Sansa fled his mind as he relived Gregor's hand clutching his hair painfully, his knees and legs being skinned from the cold rough granite of the floor as he drug him across the room, the searing heat of the fire on his face, burning and melting his skin. Sandor fell to his knees and screamed, fisting his hands in his hair.

He didn't know how long he had knelt there when he heard a horse approaching. Staggering to his feet, Sandor grabbed Stranger's reins and looked dizzily over to see Dondarrion approaching.

"The others think you have taken this opportunity to run," Dondarrion said, the ever-calm tone of his voice annoying Sandor.

"No," he managed to answer.

Dondarrion nodded. "I thought not." He scrutinized Sandor for several long moments. "It was the fire, wasn't it?"

Sandor groaned and clutched Stranger's reins tighter. "I don't . . . don't want to speak of it."

"It was a hard thing to see." The old knight dismounted and led his mount closer. "A hard thing to hear as it happened. But Lem Lemoncloak is with R'hllor now, and having entered his presence through flame, will be highly blessed because he entered through the flames."

Sandor laughed, his voice breaking as he regarded Dondarrion with distaste. "You have no idea!" he shouted finally. "No idea of the pain, the suffering . . . how much it hurts!"

"You are right. I have never burnt, nor will I ever have the courage to embrace the flames and enter R'hllor's presence shriven of all my sins. But I do have eyes, and ears. I heard Lem's screams, saw the pain and horror in his face before he died."

"How did it happen?" Sandor choked. "How?"

Dondarrion shook his head. "That I do not know. I saw no torch." He cocked his head to the side. "I hear the others coming. We have buried Lem. Jack is severely wounded, but still alive. I hope to get him to Oldstones as quickly as possible." He turned and regarded Sandor solemnly. "I will ride back, and tell the others I found you. I do hope you will remain here until I return."

"I'll be here," Sandor mumbled gruffly, turning to Stranger so he didn't have to look at the knight.

"I know you will be," Dondarrion answered gently before mounting his horse and riding off the way he had come.

Sandor busied himself with making a fire and preparing a sleeping space for himself. Since he had nothing else to do but wait, he began dragging logs and branches over to the fire and began to build a lean-to for Jack to sleep in, if he lasted the night. The stars were out above him as he heard the sound of hoofbeats in the night. He looked up as the others entered the small clearing, giving him wary looks, but seeming grateful for a fire all the same. Thoros and Dondarrion took Jack off of the crude pole-drag they had fashioned, pulled by Anguy's horse, and put him in the lean-to. The Brotherhood Without Banners began setting up a camp as Merrit passed out jerky and biscuits. Sandor sat quietly by the fire, chewing his jerky as he watched Anguy throw a few pieces of jerky into a pot of water to make broth for Jack.

"How . . . how is he?" Sandor asked Anguy abruptly.

Anguy shook his head. "It doesn't look good. The arrow pierced something vital inside him, Thoros says. All the signs show that he will die. Thoros offered him the gift of mercy, but Jack refused. His family . . ." He waved a hand helplessly. "The arrow has been removed, and the wound cauterized and bathed with boiling water, but . . ." Anguy broke off and wiped his brow.

"He wants to see his woman and children, before he goes," Sandor finished. "He knows he's dying, doesn't he?"

Anguy nodded. "He does. All the way here, he wouldn't rest, speaking of his family and worrying he would be a burden on us. But we are brothers, and we will not fail him. All he asks is to see his wife once more. We will do our best to honor his last request."

"I think," Sandor said quietly, feeling a bit embarrassed, "that I would want the same. To see Sansa's face before I go to the seven hells."

The archer looked up and met Sandor's gaze with a look of contemplation. "I think that is what we all would want, Sandor. To see our loved ones around us as we pass through to the other side."

"You believe in this R'hllor then? This Lord of Light who wants us all to burn?"

Anguy laughed, passing a hand over his haggard face. "Aye. I believe there is a God, and that his name is R'hllor. Do I believe he wants us all to die through flame? No. But perhaps that is my own cowardice speaking. However, I cannot think that a painful death is the will of the Lord of Light. He is supposed to protect us from the darkness and the troubles of this world, not add to them or cause us harm. Burning, in my opinion, is for those who don't believe."

"I don't believe in burning at all," Sandor snapped, glaring at Anguy.

"Truly, neither do I. But I have seen the power of the Red God. Have you ever seen a man die and then return to life?"

"Tis impossible," Sandor scoffed.

Anguy shook his head before nodding at Dondarrion. "Ser Beric has died. Many times. Your brother impaled him with a lance. Ser Crakehall smashed his head in with a mace, 'tis why his head looks so odd. Ser Lorch hung him from a tree. I joined the Brotherhood just before your brother Gregor stabbed him in the eye. I watched it happen. Ser Beric died, I saw it with my own eyes, but Thoros of Myr brought him back, just as the others assured me he would."

"So why doesn't the red priest bring back Lem, or give Jack the gift of mercy and bring him back after?"

"It's not that simple," Anguy replied solemnly. "From what I've seen, every time one is brought back, one forgets part of his old life. Jack won't want that. He won't want to forget his family. He knows his wife would not want a shell of a man. Ser Beric barely remembers his own kin. He loses more of his memories each time he arises from death. And Lem, how would he feel if he was brought back, only to walk the world a blind, burned husk of what he once was?" He shook his head. "He wouldn't have wanted that, and nor would his betrothed. 'Tis better for him to die honorably, in battle, than to awaken a walking corpse."

Sandor stared into the flames, thinking hard. "Then why does Dondarrion do it?" he asked finally.

"To save Westeros from its enemies," Anguy said quietly. "To return justice to our kingdoms. But mostly . . ." here his voice lowered to a whisper, ". . . to spread the Light of R'hllor amongst our people, that they might be saved." His forehead creased as he stared at the fire. "He and Thoros believe that only when all of the peoples of Westeros turn from their false gods to that of the One True God, will true justice ever return to our country." He half shook his head, but stopped himself and simply looked away.

"There will be no justice until there is only one king left," Sandor predicted slowly. "It has naught to do with the gods."

Anguy glanced over at Thoros and Dondarrion, who were speaking with Jack. "You have the truth of it," he whispered, his voice almost too low to hear. "I've heard the rumors. Tommen is a bastard born of incest, but his real trouble is that he is a boy, and we need a man to run the kingdom. Stannis Baratheon is not liked by the people, and follows the Lord of Light, whom the people of Westeros will have to be persuaded to follow as well, if he takes the throne." He eyed the red priest and Dondarrion once more. "The people don't want the Red God. They believe in the Seven, or the old gods if they be from the North, and his red priestess using her sorceries in the name of R'hllor will not persuade them to change their allegiance to their own gods. I've heard that old Balon Greyjoy has proclaimed himself King of the Iron Islands, and he wishes to invade, to become King of all Westeros. No one will want him, as he follows the Drowned God, and will want converts to drown themselves in his service."

"And that leaves Robb Stark, my wife's brother," Sandor finished.

"Yes. The Young Wolf."

"Sansa told me he prays to both the old gods and the Seven," Sandor admitted. "He is young, but I have seen him fight when I was at Winterfell." He chewed on his lip for a moment. "I think he would make the best king."

"But he doesn't wish to be king of Westeros," Anguy said harshly. "Only of the North. He has never been groomed for kingship, only as a Warden of the North. What would he do with the crown of Westeros, if he sat on the Iron Throne?" Anguy picked up a stone and tossed it into the fire. "Young as he is, though, he is the best choice. Unless you believe that the Dragon Queen would make a better ruler."

Sandor glanced up at him. "The Dragon Queen?"

"Daenarys. The Stormborn. Last of the Targaryans. There are rumors she has hatched three dragons, and wishes to sail to Westeros to reconquer her father's kingdoms."

"Dragons. Dragons, with their fire." Sandor shook his head. "More will die with her as queen than elsewise. Better the King-Beyond-the-Wall conquer us than the Dragon Queen."

Jack moaned painfully, and both Sandor and Anguy turned to see what was going on. "No, Thoros," the dying man shouted. "No. Marri. Tara. Jon. The . . . the others. They need . . . they need me."

Thoros murmured something and pulled the furs closer around the dying man before he and Dondarrion rose and walked to the fire.

"Will he make it to Oldstones?" Anguy asked dully.

"If the Lord of Light wills it," Thoros answered. "But truly, I don't think so."

Jack-Be-Lucky died two days later. The Brotherhood burned him in accordance with the rites of R'hllor, the Lord of Light, with Thoros murmuring prayers over his pyre. Sandor stood watching, and as the fire burned his brother in arms, he thought of Jack's family and what would happen to Sansa should he be the one consigned to the flames.


	9. Chapter 9

9: SANSA

Sansa stifled a giggle as she peered through the boughs of the cedar tree she stood in. It was exhilarating, being so high up. She could see nothing but the blue sky above her and a sea of green all around. The smells of pine and sap and the fresh, clean air were almost intoxicating and she breathed in deeply, but silently. Sansa cocked her head at the barely audible sound of something approaching and tensed, holding on tightly to a branch as she focused on where the sound was coming from. Bushes rustled below her, and Sansa watched in silence, holding her breath, as a doe emerged and began nibbling on some grass. She let her breath out and relaxed for a moment before she heard a _twang_ and the doe reared before collapsing, an arrow in her side.

More footsteps approached and Sansa turned her head to see Tym, bow in hand, walk up to the doe and nudge the body with his toe. He drew his knife and scanned the area, letting out a huge sigh before beginning to butcher the animal. Sansa held a hand to her mouth as she giggled silently.

"Good shot," she called out, watching with satisfaction as Tym jumped away from the deer and stumbled backwards.

"Gods be good, Princess," Tym grumbled. "I lost your trail long ago! I thought you went in the river and gone downstream! An' this is where you've been?"

Sansa nodded and began climbing down the tree. "I climbed up the pine tree with the funny knots on it and went through the trees."

Tym laughed. "That was smart of you! That's where the trees are thickest. You could have fooled anyone on your trail with that trick. Especially right next to the stream. Anyone would have thought you'd gone into the water."

"Thank you," Sansa answered, smiling. Learning how to slip through the woods silent and unseen had been incredibly easy for her. Finding hiding spots seemed like second nature. Sansa had only to think of how many times she had wanted to hide herself away in King's Landing, and hiding spots just seemed to appear. This was the third time she had hidden from Tym, under orders from Wenda, that she had successfully concealed herself from the second in command. The first time she had hidden in an alcove under a mass of rocks. The second time, she had covered her trail by entering the stream, coming out further downstream, then retracing her tracks and doubling back the way she had come. Tym had found her sitting on a boulder close to the castle.

She leapt from the lowest branch onto the ground and wrinkled her nose at the smell coming from the pile of entrails steaming on the ground, but pulled her knife from her belt and began helping Tym skin the deer. With her help, the doe was butchered and the meat strapped to Tym's back in no time at all. Sansa rolled up the pelt and fastened it to her own back before the two began making their way back to the castle, slipping silently through the trees. Sansa fingered her braid as she walked, breathing in the air and smiling at the sound of birdsong high up in the trees. The beauty of the forest never ceased to fill her with wonder.

_I never thought I'd enjoy being outdoors so much,_ she mused. _I never knew how beautiful it was. Back at Winterfell, I should have spent more time sewing in the godswood. _She looked around at the beautiful green and brown landscape, at the light filtering through the thick trees, at the moss growing on the branches and the ground and her smile grew wider. _It's so lovely here._ She saw the stool of a deer close to the path, noting its freshness, and wondering idly if it had been the doe who had left it there. Smiling wider, she thought of the day Harwin had taken her hunting, letting her lead, and how she had found the trail of a buck. Harwin had gotten the killing shot, but Sansa had been very proud when she heard him telling Wenda he would never have been able to track the deer and that he thought Sansa had the ability to be an excellent tracker.

It had been Tym, sometimes along with Harwin, who had taught her to follow a trail, what animal made which footprints and what stool, how long it had been since it passed by. He taught her the basics of butchering an animal, as disgusted as she was by the steaming piles of entrails and all the stinky blood. Tym also taught her how to tell what direction she was going from the positions of the sun, moon, and stars when it was clear or from the position of the moss on the trees if it was cloudy. Sansa learned other basics of outdoor survival from other members of Wenda's group. She learned how to hone a knife from Roman the blacksmith, make a fire and skin a rabbit from Ysabet, how to build shelter from available materials and how to tie knots from Tara's brothers Jon and Devan. She learned how to tan a hide and sew leather from Alec the tanner, how to make pine needle tea and which plants healed and which poisoned from Nettie the herbalist.

_Arya should have been here, not me, _she thought wryly as she reflected on how much she had learned. _She would have loved this. I am so proud of myself, though, for sticking with it and making myself less helpless. Next time Sandor and I are on our own, I will be a help and not a burden. _

All that she learned she hid from her husband during the brief periods she saw him. The days Sandor was with her, she was obedient and ladylike. He detested the outlaw clothes she wore when he was gone. She thought he disliked the short tunic because it made her less of a lady, and he had fallen in love with a lady, not an outlaw. Sansa was ever grateful to Wenda for telling the others to keep quiet about what she did while he was gone, and to provide her with a couple of gowns to wear while her husband was at Oldstones. Sansa was afraid that if Sandor knew what she was about, he would demand she stop. At first, she hoped he _would_ find out and forbid her, but all these months later, she found her feelings had changed. She _wanted_ to learn as much as she could.

They came up on the castle gate and Tym shouted a greeting. As the portcullis rose, Sansa was surprised to see Maryana waiting by the steps to the watchtower, wringing her hands and looking scared.

"What is it?" Sansa asked as Maryana rushed up to her.

"Princess, its Melly," Maryana whispered quickly. "Harwin and Lady Wenda need you to come. She's having her baby, Princess, and its not going well for her."

"Give me your pack and the pelt, Princess," Tym urged. "I'll take care of them."

Sansa nodded, anxious with worry. Melly had gotten pregnant very soon after Sansa had first arrived at Oldstones, almost immediately after her marriage to Harwin. She had had a miscarriage, but had gotten pregnant again a few months later. The pregnancy had been difficult for her from the start. Sansa remembered her mother's pregnancy with Rickon, how she was sick in the morning and was tired all day for the first few months, then blooming with health for the rest of her time, eating strange combinations of food at odd times of the day. Melly had been completely different. She was sick all the time, and had been for the entire pregnancy. Her stomach swelled but her body shrank, as if all Melly's energy was going towards making the baby and there was nothing left for her. She lay in bed most of the day, too tired to get up, looking so weary and haggard it hurt Sansa to visit her. Still, she went as often as she could, sewing a tiny garment while chatting quietly with Melly, or reading to her from one of the few books Wenda owned and lent to Sansa for just that purpose. Melly, not being able to read herself, could lie for hours listening to Sansa with closed eyes and a smile on her face.

_Poor Melly,_ Sansa thought as she hurried along behind Maryana, weaving their way through the courtyard to the small home Harwin had built in the castle proper. She could hear Melly's agonizing screaming and moans of pain before they even got close. Roman stood just outside the door to his smithy, arms crossed and expression pained. He nodded at Sansa as she scratched on Harwin's door and followed Maryana inside. Melly lay on a cot on the right side of the room, her gaunt face slick with sweat. Harwin and Wenda knelt next to her, holding her hands and murmuring quietly to the laboring young woman. Nettie stood by the hearth, stirring a small pot that smelled strongly of herbs. She motioned Sansa over as Maryana picked up a basin of water and a rag and started wiping Melly's face.

"It an't going well, not at all, Princess," Nettie whispered as Melly let out another ear-piercing scream. "Th' pains are coming too fast. She's only been laboring a few hours. Bein' 'er first, it should 'ave taken longer to start 'avin pains like this. Here." Nettie handed Sansa a kettle and a packet. "Make th' girl some tea. Them's raspberry leaves. Gods be good, Princess. Pray for 'er while you're brewin' it. She'll need all the prayers she can get."

Sansa measured out the leaves and put the kettle on to boil before moving to kneel by Wenda. The Fawn smiled sadly at her before relinquishing her position by the bed to go talk quietly to Nettie. Sansa took Melly's hand in her own, noting how weak the young woman's grip was.

"Melly," she whispered, "it's me. It's Sansa. Everything will be all right, Melly. Don't give up."

Melly turned her tortured gaze to Sansa, staring at her through bloodshot, glassy eyes before staring straight ahead and moaning loudly.

"She don't know who we are, Sansa," Harwin said hoarsely without looking at her. "She don't know me, or Nettie, or Wenda." He choked down a sob and buried his head in the blankets. "R'hllor please, help my wife. Help Melly through this and I swear I will do everything I can for the Light, for you, R'hllor."

Sansa met Maryana's sad eyes for a moment before her own filled with tears. She laid one hand on Harwin's shoulder while holding tight to Melly. Closing her eyes, she began to pray silently to the Seven and even the old gods, asking them to save Harwin's wife and child. Melly screamed again as the kettle began to whistle.

"I'll get it," she heard Wenda say, and she tightened her grip on Melly's hand.

Nettie appeared next to her and pulled up the blankets on the bed, examining Melly's privates. "She should be pushing now," Nettie announced, her voice hard. "Maryana, child, get those pillows closer. 'Arwin, lift up yer wife . . . yes. Child, push them pillows under 'er. Like that. Lady Wenda, I'll be needin' you t' talk to 'er. Try t' get 'er to push." She pushed graying strands of hair out of her face. "Princess, you and 'Arwin hold 'er down. I see what's th' matter. Th' baby's breech." She rolled up her sleeves. "I'm going t' try an' turn it, but it an't going t' be easy."

The others moved into position around Melly. Sansa gripped Melly tightly, with Harwin holding her down on the other side. She stared in fascination as Nettie laid her hands down on Melly's huge belly and began to twist, pushing down as she did so. Melly screamed, her body jerking up as Harwin and Sansa tried to hold her down. The scream went on and on as Nettie tried to shift the baby. It seemed to go on and on before Nettie rocked back on her heels, shaking her head.

"I'll 'ave t' try the 'ard way," she murmured, seemingly to herself.

"Do _something_!" Harwin shouted, his voice frantic. "Please!"

Nettie pressed her lips together and nodded. "I'll need yous t' 'old her legs," she grunted to Harwin and Sansa. "Lady Wenda, you'll 'ave to 'old 'er down as well."

Sansa did as she was told, her head swimming with fear and worry. She watched Nettie slide her hand slowly into Melly, until most of her forearm was inside. It was all she could do not to retch as Melly screamed and thrashed.

"'Old her still!" Nettie shouted suddenly. "I found the babe's feet."

Melly screamed so loud Sansa thought she would go deaf. With horror, she watched blood gush down Nettie's arm, pooling onto the blankets before dripping onto the floor. Everything began happening at once. Wenda began urging Melly to push, while Harwin sobbed and held onto his wife's leg, praying to his god. Nettie began praying under her breath as she slowly began sliding her hand out. Sansa gripped Melly for dear life, closing her eyes and screaming silent prayers to the gods in her head, desperately wishing she could drown out the sound of such pain. It seemed to go on forever, Wenda's murmured encouragement, Harwin's loud pleas to R'hllor, Nettie's fervered whispering, and the screams.

_Seven save her. Mother, help this baby come soon. Warrior, lend Melly your strength. Crone, guide Nettie with your wisdom, give her the knowledge to save them both. _

Another scream, then a sickening muffled crack. Sansa's eyes flew open as Nettie pulled the babe from Melly's womb. Its arm hung at an odd angle. _Gods be good,_ Sansa thought as her body reacted automatically and she turned quickly to vomit on the floor. Her head swam sickeningly as she heard Maryana's gasp of horror, the _crack_ as she dropped the basin, the girl's stumbling footsteps as she ran for the door sobbing wildly. Harwin choked and heaved as he stared at the broken limb, his face so white he reminded Sansa of a wer.

"Sansa, I need your help," Wenda said quietly, averting her eyes from the awful sight.

Sansa closed her eyes for a moment before forcing herself to face the laboring mother once more. She gagged again at the sight and smell of so much blood. Nettie hurried to the hearth and began working on the newborn as Wenda gently pushed Sansa towards Melly's head.

"Talk to her, encourage her," Wenda ordered as she moved between Melly's legs. "Try to get her to push. The afterbirth has to come out before I can try to staunch the flow of blood."

"Melly, push!" Sansa obeyed, staring down at Melly's ravaged face. "Melly, you're doing so well. Just push. Please, Melly. Push." It seemed like she repeated herself a hundred times before Wenda let out a sigh of relief.

"It's out, but she is still bleeding," Wenda said through her teeth. She glanced at Harwin, who knelt still as a statue by his wife's bed, his look of horror frozen on his face. "Sansa, towels."

Sansa stumbled over to the chest where Melly kept her towels, barely able to keep upright. She was vaguely aware of Nettie covering the infant with a small blanket as she yanked the towels out and stumbling back towards Wenda. Nettie said something in Wenda's ear, and the Fawn bowed her head for a moment before turning her full attention to Melly.

"No," Harwin began to moan, pressing his fists to his head as he glanced from the infant on the table to his wife in bed. "No. No. No."

"Sansa!"

She jumped, startled, before she realized she had stopped walking and was clutching the towels so tightly her hands began to spasm. Stumbling forward, Sansa passed Harwin and started to hold the towels out to Nettie. Suddenly something gripped her tightly around the legs and her body toppled sideways. She heard the air whooshing through her ears and around her body, felt a sharp pain against her head, and watched the world blur into a red mist before blackness overtook her.

_Sansa awoke, but she didn't open her eyes. Something had happened to her, she was sure, but couldn't remember what. Experimentally, she wiggled her fingers and toes. The motion was surprisingly hard, as if something was pressing down on her. She tried to move her arms and legs, but the movement was difficult, her limbs too lazy. Sansa drew in a breath. The air was cool and crisp, smelling of pine and loam and snow. She moved her fingers again, vaguely noticing she lay on a bed of pine needles and dirt. _

"_Sansa," someone said. _

_She opened her eyes to see a great godswood tree before her. _

"_Winterfell," she whispered. "I'm at Winterfell."_

"_You are, daughter," someone said. A man._

_Sansa felt her strength return and she pushed herself up slowly. A man stood in a corner of the godswood, wearing a great dark cloak pinned at the front with a silver snarling wolf._

"_Father!" Sansa cried. "But you're . . ."_

"_Dead, yes," Eddard Stark said as he took a step forward, pushing the hood back from his cloak. _

_Everything about him was the same as she remembered. He regarded her with the same solemn expression he usually wore. His brown hair was tied back with a thong, his dark eyes filled with love. Ice even hung from the scabbard at his back as it always had._

"_Daughter, you must save our House. Save the Starks, Sansa."_

_Sansa stared at him, confused. "Me? But Robb is King of the North, Father. He will save us all."_

_Eddard shook his head. "You must save our family. There are enemies amongst your brothers, around your mother, your sister."_

"_I know. There are always enemies, Father. But what can I do?"_

_He smiled at her, and his body flickered in and out like a candle._

"_Daughter . . . save the Starks. Sansa, winter is coming."_

_He faded away as Sansa began to sob. "No, Father. Come back. Come back."_

_And everything was dark once more. _


End file.
